


Remnants

by CaptainHugo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing, Crowley and Aziraphale post-character growth, Domestic, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual love confessions, Fluff and Angst, Heaven & Hell, Heaven and Hell are grasping for straws, Heaven before the Heavenly Battle, Hell Trauma, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Torture, Violence, Weddings, Wings, angels and demons aren't supposed to touch each other...but they do, book/series hybrid, heaven trauma, this is not Crowley as Raphael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:09:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHugo/pseuds/CaptainHugo
Summary: Adam, the Antichrist, seemed to have put everything back together Post-Apocalypse and our favorite angel-demon pair seemed to have conquered over their respective bosses. However, chaos and tragedy soon ensue for everyone involved. New orders are implemented to replace the ones lost by the failure of Armeggedon and angels and demons realize just how similar they really are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on ao3 and my first fanfiction on Good Omens (even though I've been obsessed all summer). I hope you all enjoy it and it will have several several chapters. :)

The summer had already given way to fall, inching towards the winter that waited impatiently, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but recall the distinct smell of crisp apples when he sat drinking his cocoa, reading an astronomy book. He’d always been prone to fidgeting, often in the form of wringing his hands or pulling at his threadbare waistcoat, but since the Almost-Apocalypse, his physical nerves had seemed to vanish. His form felt much more familiar to the one that he’d been issued when he was assigned to guard the East Gate. His hand ached in his palm sometimes when he was especially emotional, pleading to have its rightful weapon back in it. All angels had been hardwired for this fight, and he was constructed as a soldier, after all.  
However, on this night, despite not constantly glancing at the grandfather clock across him, nor being indulged completely in his book, he, very humanly, found his mind trailing off from beyond the page. His eyes glazed over as he pictured the cramped, unforgiving Hell he’d tried to saunter down towards in order to defy Heaven. He had internally remarked that the only redeemable aspect of the place had been poor lighting that hid what he was certain he did not want to witness. He recalled the look of betrayal on Satan’s face that he felt sure must have resembled God’s own when Her children disobeyed her before Eden. The feeling of being discorporated buzzed about in his bones beneath his “new” skin.  
He hadn’t seen Crowley since they’d dined at the Ritz. It had felt almost normal when they did; thousands of years of lunches, temptations, miracles, all resolved themselves in the feeling of relief that fell over their table. However, when all the other patrons had finally dwindled away and Aziraphale suggested they “get a wiggle on,” Crowley simply nodded and drove him back to the bookshop, wordlessly. They didn’t always have to talk: that was the benefit of a 6000 year symbiotic relationship. However, this silence after everyone was almost permanently silent fell over them like a heavy, wool quilt that was known to irritate its user throughout the night. Aziraphale, in all his British politeness, wished Crowley goodnight and resisted the temptation to watch him skid away faster than needed.  
That had been a few months ago, not that he was counting of course. They had forever again. But it didn’t feel like forever, not to Aziraphale, at least. The uneasy feeling of being immortal once more, but this time without a celestial side, brought Aziraphale to do something he hadn’t before. He haphazardly discarded his book to the floor. His mind had made itself up and he immediately grabbed his coat before reaching a harsh realization. Crowley always drives, Aziraphale softly reminded himself. He didn’t have a car, or any mode of transport really. What need was there when there was a perfectly nice - er, well not-all-together-evil - demon perfectly at your disposal. Feeling it slightly too off-putting to call Crowley to drive him to a place he wanted to go alone, Aziraphale resolved to take a cab.

-

Tadfield looked as it had when he last left, except for its trees having generally less leaves, none green, of course, but all the same nonetheless. Aziraphale tipped the cabbie over-graciously and began on foot to a little cottage he somehow remembered the way to. During this journey, he contemplated the major concern that had pressed forward in his mind, pushed aside worries of being kidnapped again for execution by the angels, or Hell simply creating a new Antichrist for the process to start over again, climaxing after another minute eleven years. No, this thought, to Aziraphale, was much more worrying. Have I begun losing my Grace?  
This is a heavy question considering his Grace differed so greatly from his fellow angels. But, overall, Aziraphale, since walking straight into Hell - albeit not in his own corporal body - had felt some of his angelic prowess trickling from him. Thoughts of Falling came into his mind, but what he remembered from the angels that originally Fell, this was nowhere close to how that happened. Aziraphale recalled how, during the Heavenly Battle, the opposition suddenly dropped like their soul had been ripped out and they all screamed out in agony, before being forcibly flown out of Heaven, at varying rates and times. Those that fell the longest were set aflame, and these were the most notorious demons, Lucifer - er, Satan - being the one to burn the hottest. If Aziraphale were Falling, he would definitely know.  
Wouldn’t he?  
Despite feeling his powers growing weaker, miracles being clumsier, and his wings feeling extraordinarily heavy, Aziraphale found himself politely knocking upon the door of Jasmine Cottage, barely recognizing the horseshoe above the threshold. He adjusted his waistcoat and patted his hair, hoping he was not intruding. A messy-haired Newton opened the door, smiling politely with his eyes at his guest.  
“Ah, Az…” he greeted, already having forgotten the angel’s name or not wanting to butcher it.  
“Aziraphale, good boy,” the angel offered, “It’s good to see you, Newton. I hope I am not intruding, I know I didn’t call.” Newton thankfully stopped his ramblings by welcoming him in, leading him to the kitchen where there was already a kettle on the stove. The attractive Anathema was sitting reading a book on the counter (the first thing made Aziraphale grin, the other grimace). She heard the footsteps and jumped down, marking her book before abandoning it.  
“Hello, Mr. Aziraphale, I didn’t know you’d be joining us today,” she said warmly. Aziraphale was inwardly very glad they were obviously not doing much of anything, for he didn’t know if he could handle being turned away by the first people he sought companionship from. “Where’s Mr. Crowley?” she added after a pause of thought. Newton’s face matched his girlfriend’s tone of voice as they both looked at their guest, who was now seating himself at their table. “I’m actually not quite sure. Haven’t been keeping track I suppose,” Aziraphale answered in a tone he wished was warm, non-committal, but still light-hearted.  
The couple shared a look before deciding to move on for the sake of keeping things from spiralling too personal, or dark, if that were the case. Newton tended to the tea while Aziraphale chatted animatedly with Anathema about this and that. It was very much like talking with his fellow book-shop owners - mostly gossip of course - until Newton would comment here and there, adding a slight cherry on top. The angel found himself relishing in the companionship, but also realizing he was near the cusp of overstaying his welcome.  
“Well, it seems I have exhausted all the time you two must have for a face from a dark day,” he finally added, his tea gone and his cup cold. Anathema’s face scrunched up in the way that Aziraphale had always been intimidated by. He was never good at reading women’s faces, much less trying to entertain them for too long. They were much more mischievous about what they meant underneath than men typically were. The only man Aziraphale had truly known to be like a woman in that regard was…  
“No, no, Aziraphale. We love the company. To be honest, it’s just been me and Newt here since that day, and all the images are really fuzzy still, coming in and out. We see Adam and Them around, but only when they feel like it. We got the invitation to Madame Tracy’s wedding, well I already told you that-”  
"I think Anathema is trying to ask why you came to see us today of all days. Or, even, who you really are?” Newton’s words unbalanced Aziraphale slightly. “Pardon? I’m a used bookshop owner, you know that,” he offered weaker than he had originally hoped. Newton didn’t mind, simply shrugged, “I just think it’s weird that you and Crowley showed up randomly that day - I mean, so did we but I know why we were there - and I know you guys were prophesied to be there and whatnot. There’s obviously something very supernatural about you, but you’ve never exactly, exactly come out to say what. I’d assumed that’s why you’re here to begin with.”  
Aziraphale immediately began fidgeting. Dealing with humans being mixed up with supernatural affairs was always a strange business, because they knew more than Above thought they did, but less than Below assumed. The thought that, should he tell them and he be revoked his position also floated to the top of his mind. The angel found himself fumbling between the most comfortable answer, the one he was confident in giving (Well, we’re all a little special on the inside, you know that as well as I do. That’s just where my part fit into the grand scheme.): he’d given it hundreds of times to humans. However, that felt more deceitful than normal to be lying to the people he had sought out.  
“Well, to put it very, very plainly. You see, as I said before, about the garden, back at the airbase, well,” he sputtered about, causing confusion to fall on their faces, before finally straightening his back slightly and remarking, “I’m an angel of the Lord. Crowley, a demon. You see, it was obvious that Armeggedon was supposed to happen, you saw my...boss, Gabriel, the Archangel, and the Prince of Hell, Beelzebub, on the tarmac. And, well, Satan, the demon, and Metatron, the mouthpiece for God. I, well, Crowley and I decided we would choose humanity instead of Heaven or Hell, because honestly, Gabriel tried to execute me without trial immediately after this incident, and Crowley had done nothing more evil than asking questions.  
“Anyway, we decided to try to save humanity, because you would all just be a setting to have the Great War on, and that just didn’t sit well. And thus, we averted it all, with your help of course, and Adam gets to be a normal boy and…” Aziraphale felt slightly proud of getting through his summary without too much hassle, hoping Anathema and Newton had understood and went along. “So did you and Mr. Crowley become humans then?” Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened slightly at Newton’s blunt question. “Well, no, of course not! I was made from Her Grace, you can’t exactly, well...you can’t un-angel someone - well, see, I’d have to...Newton, I’m still genetically an angel, but that doesn’t give me much to work with, if you understand me.”  
They nodded along, half-committedly, obviously slightly worried about the frazzled supernatural being in front of them, that they suddenly remembered being very friendly with a certain sword engulfed in flames. Anathema simply smiled at him, getting up and grabbed something, no one wanting to try to dissect the mess that were all of their lives. She handed him and envelope, suddenly getting a sour look on her face. “That’s your invitation to the wedding next year. It’s also addressed to Crowley, so if you could…”  
“Relay the information, please?” Newton finished, adding, “I know the Madame and Sergeant are getting married soon, too, that’s why it’s so far out. But we’re pretty much married anyway.” Aziraphale wasn’t listening enough to see him grab her up and nuzzle her neck, much like he’d seen Adam and Eve do some six thousand years ago. Aziraphale’s eyes had been glued to this envelope, inviting him to be apart of a set of humans’ lives. He had never fully submerged himself in that manner before, but felt slightly giddy. This joy was only eclipsed slightly by his worries of how to relay the information to Crowley. He did wish she’d been able to make him his own.

-

Aziraphale found himself walking out of Jasmine Cottage about an hour before sunset, hoping to find Adam and Them before they’d have to be to bed, but acknowledging that their parents probably wouldn’t let them out that late. Either way, he had a long trek to get back to a place where he could find a cab, or a bus, or anything really. He halfheartedly wondered if there was a pub here in the small village of Tadfield, when he felt a strong breeze blow by his hips. “Adam, is that you?” his question was answered soon after when he laid his eyes on the small mutt dog following behind four bicycles.  
Typical of the Them that were often seen as rude and disrespectful, especially to adults, they stopped for Aziraphale, offering him their full attention, as long as it was something that they cared for. Questioning or boring of authority granted them this image from the authority that was receiving it. Adam, however, often found adults fascinating and talked to them long enough to figure out if they were worth it. Aziraphale, in this case, definitely was.  
“Hello, young dears. I hope you all remember me, from the Tadfield Airbase?” he quietly inquired. The other type of human - besides women - that often sent him for loops in conversation were teenagers, especially smart ones. He dimly remembered an exceptionally intelligent teenage girl from medieval times that believed him to be a kind, rich man from far away and gave Aziraphale the impression she was ready to wed. He shook this thought off as Pepper began, “Of course, you’re the guy that was a woman!”  
Aziraphale nodded, half-heartedly, and asked, “How are you all doing? I came to check up on some of you.” The Them looked at Adam for this question, apparently operating under some rulebook they made up just for the four of them. The Not-Antichrist-But-Still-Might-Be still looked like he could be straight from a Kids Vogue edition, and his blue eyes shined as he said, “You’re the angel-type right? Where’s your demon?” Aziraphale, still reeling from the entirety of this conversation, stuttered about, unable to answer until Wensleydale added, “And don’t worry, sir, we’re very open-minded here in Tadfield. Well, those of us that are young, you know?”  
Aziraphale pulled at his waistcoat, fidgeting to look for an appropriate response, “I’m not sure where Mr. Crowley is right now. But I am glad you are all doing well. How are your studies?” This elicited a laugh from all four of them, Adam slowly losing interest, despite the supernatural calling of this man. “Are you all going to Anathema and Newton’s wedding?” This desperate attempt from Aziraphale piqued their interest so much they all began losing sight of what they’d originally had in mind and stayed out as long as possible with the angel, before abandoning him one by one to head home. Adam was the last one left, declaring he couldn’t get in any more trouble than he was already in. “Why are you an angel?” This caught Aziraphale off-guard enough that he sputtered, “Why are you the Antichrist?” Adam, respectfully nodded, jumping onto his bike. “Mine’s cooler, you’ve got to admit. It’s a shame I’m not like I was before.” And with this he rode off, smelling like apples.

-

He’d spent two weeks trying to get into contact with Crowley. He’d just as easily assumed he was asleep, except he couldn’t help but thinking that he’d been taken, or worse, moved on. This led to him landing on Crowley’s doorstep, knocking for numerous minutes before moving to miracle it. His breath caught when his power didn’t work. His magic didn’t budge the door. He knocked a few more times before summoning all his Grace, fearing the worst at this point, to gimmick the door open. Finally, with some struggle with the doorknob, he let himself in. He found Crowley sitting on his couch, eyes absolutely glazed over. There was no remnant of any life in here, but Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a brown leaf amongst his green masterpieces.  
“Crowley,” he nervously called out. The demon stirred a little bit before throwing his glasses on and draping himself similarly to before, just vertical this time. “Takeaseatangel,” he slurred, but not his typical drunken slur that Aziraphale knew so well. “Frankly, my dear, you look worse for wear,” Aziraphale offered as he slipped into the only chair in the room, sideways to the couch. Crowley didn’t respond, but made what appeared to be an attempt at a shrug.  
There was an infinitely long silence, tinged with an atypical uncomfortable edge. “What day is it?” Crowley finally spoke, reaching for a full wine glass that hadn’t previously been there. As Aziraphale answered, the demon passed him the glass, grabbing another one from nothing. Jealousy made the angel shift uncharacteristically in his seat, trying to ensure Crowley didn’t catch on. He wasn’t seeming to have trouble with his miracles. Surely he wasn’t Falling. “I visited Anathema, Newton, Adam, and his little friends the other day,” Aziraphale started, slightly hopeful for true conversation. “Why’d you almost break down my door, angel?” Crowley asked, not angry, nor emotional at all, slightly flat and dull.  
"Well, if someone answered their phone I wouldn’t have to. I never know if Hell will take you back for a second go.”  
Silence fell once more before Crowley, slightly more deadpan, if possible, truthfully spoke, “I was shedding my skin actually. Fire tends to do that to my form for some reason. And, Lord knows I’ve seen my fair share of fire.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunched up at his friend using the Almighty’s name without flinching.  
“Crowley…”  
“I apologize, angel,”  
Silence fell again, this one slightly more comfortable, but much more unknown. “Look, I don’t apologize often, I ought to go first. I wanted to answer your calls, but I got a tip that Heaven and Hell were going to tag-team and get us both, so I had to take care of that and wanted to keep you as far away as possible. I got that handled and then immediately had to shed my skin, which you know is worse than being stuck in traffic. And I’ve just been too...afraid I’d upset you to call back or visit.”  
Aziraphale had no response. Crowley was never this honest, ever. Most of his comments, when sober, were grunts or sounds that couldn’t be English. However, this made Aziraphale very anxious indeed, anxious that what he thought was happening was actually happening: he was Falling. “You are forgiven, Crowley,” this made the demon wince slightly, but enough that Aziraphale noticed. “Is that the only abnormal activity you’ve noticed these past few months?”  
The demon hesitated before shrugging, obviously not wanting to tell Aziraphale what that body language meant. “Your turn, then. Out with it,” the demon was beginning to sound like himself. The angel felt nothing like himself, and his words reflected that. “Well, I wanted to ask you a question I’ve never, never quite...had the gall to ask I suppose and-”  
“Out with it, angel,” Crowley said more understandingly than angrily.  
“How did you know you were Falling?” Well, that was about the stupidest way I could have put that question, Aziraphale thought.  
Crowley found himself filling up his wine glass very slowly before removing the metal that guarded his eyes, reminding Aziraphale of the cost of Falling. “Believe it or not,” he began just above a whisper, shaking slightly, “it is different for every demon. Beelzebub’s form shook so badly entering into Heaven that that is why they talk like that now. Can’t say much about the speech impediment, I guess, considering my own.” Another large gulp of wine ensued. Aziraphale was more physically in control but emotionally spiralling than he had been at the airbase.  
“There’s rumors about Lucifer, er, Satan’s Fall. Some say his hurt the most, some say the least. I’d been close enough to see his face when he Fell, and I remember it distinctly. It was resigned. He knew what his decision meant and he knew how he played into the plan…” Crowley drifted off a bit, allowing for them both to fall back in companionable silence, the one they knew so well. “You know,” Aziraphale mused, “Michael was the closest to Lucifer in the Battle when he Fell. Refused to smite him. She’s destroyed the most demons of us all.” Crowley sucked at his teeth while he contemplated that series of events against his own.  
“You remember Before, don’t you, angel?” His question was timid, like sleeping in Egyptian sheets too good to be ruined. Aziraphale found that question a reflection of his own musings. “Well, not as clearly as I probably should. Every other angel remembers a lot, but I just...don’t. Never have, really.” Aziraphale took another drink. Their wine choice was nostalgic, reaching the Babylonion era of humans not understanding how to make wine taste as it should. “I do.” And that was all Aziraphale needed to hear to gather his spirits up.  
“Crowley, my powers are...well they are so weak. I feel myself being distanced from Grace. I...I don’t think I’m going to be an angel for much longer.” There, they were finally out. Aziraphale instantly felt better, but also felt that he needed Crowley’s validation that, of course you’re still an angel and joking that, what else would you be? “I don’t think I’m a demon anymore. Well, not really not-a-demon, but definitely not controlled by Hell anymore.” Aziraphale was shocked at Crowley’s statement. Was that all it was? He wasn’t controlled by Heaven anymore? Was it as simple as that?  
Crowley laughed, turning bitter the moment it started. He downed two more drinks rapidly before standing up, holding onto his glass, glaring over at Aziraphale with some unknown emotion in his serpentine eyes. “It’s so goddamn funny, yaknow, angel-ish? Like, I’m immune to Hellfire, cuz I’m a demon, duh. But Holy Water, man, that stuff, it used to scare me shitless. Not anymore, no sir! Not Holy Fire, not Hellish River Water. They did...they did…” his eyes darkened immediately, and Aziraphale realized his demon had quietly sobered up and forced himself to do the same.  
“I think that’s enough drinks for tonight,” Crowley finally answered for the both of them. “Crowley, we didn’t finish talking-”  
“Need a lift home?” His face was pained, filled with shadows and dark circles that Aziraphale had not yet noticed to such a degree. Stubble painted his face like soot, wrinkles lining his lips and forehead from frowning, and his usually too-tight clothes hung dramatically and out of fashion from his hunched frame. “Crowley...what has happened to you?”  
“I don’t feel like driving. I’ll put you up in the guest bedroom.” And with that, Crowley disappeared from Aziraphale once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale didn’t sleep. And Crowley knew that. That didn’t stop Crowley from putting physical space between the two of them while also allowing himself time to sleep. The angel simply grabbed a random book he found (quite conveniently) from Crowley’s flat and took to reading in the guest room. He didn’t even attempt to miracle pajamas on in the guise of sleep because he didn’t feel confident that he would be successful. Either way, he wasn’t entirely interested in the biography of Freddie Mercury and allowed his thoughts to stray towards the demon a few doors down.  
Surely, he reasoned with himself, he would have told me if something bad had happened. Aziraphale recalled his previous reactions to when Crowley told him something bad had happened and rethought his original position. Of course Crowley would keep things from him. Aziraphale always messed things up, he felt. Despite all this, the angel felt slightly hopeful that he was still becoming not-quite-an-angel without Falling, which worked best for him. That means he gets to-  
His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by screaming. These screams echoed throughout the flat, sending ice up the angel's veins. Aziraphale scrunched up his face and started heading for Crowley’s bedroom. The king size bed draped in gray and white sheets were wrapped around a writhing demon wearing a tank top, boxers, and socks. Crowley was the origin of the screaming, and, being in the presence of such terror, Aziraphale immediately jumped into the angelic action of caring for a scared person.  
“Crowley, Crowley, calm down, it’s Aziraphale,” he spoke softly as he inched to the side of the bed. He was slightly unnerved at seeing the demon’s serpentine eyes looking up at him, wide with fear. Aziraphale vaguely recalled the early days where Crowley didn’t have eyelids - snakes in their original form didn’t, so he didn’t see the big deal until the dusty mess of Mesopotamia - and moved to calm down the trembling, sleeping person before him. Crowley was throwing his hands up over his face in a defensive manner and his feet were twisting this way and that as if trying to find a route of escape.  
Suddenly, he curled up into a ball, much like a snake would roll into one, and Aziraphale put a hand on his back. “Crowley, my dear, you have to wake up,” he shook him a little. Below Aziraphale's hand began growing warm, typical just before revealing one’s wings. However, instead of his beautiful crow-like wings, Crowley’s were nubs against his back, still streaked with black blood, lacking almost all feathers, and covered in bruises in different stages of healing. Aziraphale gasped, reflexively employing his own wings, as if to ensure himself that they had not also been destroyed.  
More aggressively this time, Aziraphale shook Crowley and leaned down to curse him for still being asleep. Crowley began growing hoarse from screaming and was back to trying to get his body as far away as possible from something. Sweat coated his skin and his breath grew ragged. “Az-Aziraphale!” he screamed, tears running down his pained face, “Take me instead! Leave-leave him...alone!” The angel was desperate at this point, himself frustrated and saddened by the sight. He slowly climbed further onto the bed, attempting to restrain the jerky demon, getting slapped at least once before finally getting fed up.  
With misty eyes - that were more than misty if we’re being honest - Aziraphale pinned Crowley down and locked eyes with him before slapping him one good, hard time. The echoing screams were replaced with the harsh pop of the offensive action and Aziraphale felt a tear slip off his cheek. He always hated fighting with Crowley, both physically and verbally, but Crowley wasn’t even fighting Aziraphale: he was fighting himself. Crowley’s eyes gradually cleared up, obviously ridding themselves of sleep, much to Aziraphale’s relief. In the back of his mind he hoped Crowley’s neighbors had not heard, before realizing that if this were truly common his room would be fully soundproof. Only celestial ears would be prone to bleeding at the sound.  
The emotions that passed over the demon’s face as he realized what was going on were nearly too numerous to count. Finally, he pushed Aziraphale off and grabbed at the covers, wiping his face slightly with them. His head hung low, trying desperately not to lock eyes with the angel that sat at the other side of the bed, too polite to be casual. “Are you okay?” Aziraphale asked to break the silence.  
Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, seemingly contemplating something before shaking his head. “Nightmares,” was all he gave, delivered in a rough whisper, his voice noticeably still sore from the episode. Aziraphale nodded, getting some confidence back he hadn’t realized he had had, nor had lost. “Lay back down, my dear,” he instructed, turning the lights off again, adjusting himself to the bed for Crowley’s comfort.  
The demon, equipped with all the gifts of Hell, could see in the dark and could obviously spot an angel-size being laying beside him. “At least get comfortable yourself,” he muttered before throwing his face into his pillow. If nasty faces could bite, that pillow would be reduced to remnants of feathers. Not wanting to reveal his insecurity about his miracles - and generally being stubborn about his decisions - Aziraphale remained in his daily clothes perched atop the bed with his back against the pillows, head resting on the headboard. Crowley carelessly moved his hand and Aziraphale found himself in tartan pajamas under the demon’s silk sheets. Still content, and definitely not angry, Aziraphale prepared to “sleep.”  
Crowley did attempt to fall back asleep, tossing and turning before sitting straight up and burying his head in his hands in frustration. Aziraphale, gifted with the ability to detect light and slightly disadvantaged because of it, didn’t see these events, but moreso felt them. He didn’t make to move until he heard Crowley’s sobs. Shock didn’t begin to express what Aziraphale was feeling, but he moved to rub his hand calmly over the demon’s back, not sure how to comfort a creature of Hell.  
“Do you...do you want to talk about it?” he tentatively offered as a first try. He’d helped plenty of humans in similar situations, he reasoned it would work the same for his friend. Crowley didn’t answer, instead being racked with heavier weeping. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably and he seemed unable to calm himself down.  
Aziraphale was unsure whether he grabbed Crowley to him first, or if Crowley leaned towards him first. Either way, he had Crowley in an awkward hug that felt both nostalgic and new. They used to hug when that was a typical greeting, or when their respective characters had to. However, Crowley had never grabbed his shirt so tight, curled so thoroughly, or shook so much, and none of this had ever happened in a bed in the dark. Aziraphale rubbed Crowley’s hair, realizing how much longer it had grown in a few months, and began rocking him.  
Crowley adjusted so that he was wrapped up in Aziraphale’s lap, smaller than nearly possible, but still grabbing desperately as if he were a small child. Aziraphale’s hands slipped down to the demon’s back, revealed by the ripped tank top from the wings. Unspeakable things lined his back; varying blemishes and unknown substances created a grooved mess under the angel’s fingers. He kept away from the wings because every time he got close it made Crowley whine like a wounded animal. The demon’s face and neck also carried heavy scars and whatnot, but much more taken care of than his back, presumably because of his irreparable back.  
The near-hyperventilating sobs became tears which became soft whimpers. Aziraphale held onto him even after the episode was over, but Crowley shifted so that he was laying on the angel’s chest instead of in his lap. “I’m sorry, angel,” he sheepishly murmured, in a less-than-sorry tone. Aziraphale tried to see him in the dark, but still failed. “It’s quite alright. I do wish I knew what caused all this, but I understand if you wouldn’t want to share.” Crowley bit his lip, guilty at betraying Aziraphale’s calm, open face. “Tomorrow?” he pleaded verbally. Aziraphale nodded softly and Crowley began to ready for trying to sleep again.  
“I’ve never had a nightmare, really. Never much dreamed.”  
Crowley sat up a bit, realizing something much quicker than normal. “Well, we all assumed dreams were your lots work...but then again they are also very human in design. Dreams can be wonderful, but are usually quite annoying and weird. Nightmares, well that’s pretty...obvious,” Crowley tried to keep it light, glad to still be ahold of Aziraphale, even if it were tighter than politeness would allow. “I don’t sleep so it doesn’t quite matter. I just always assumed...I’d assumed that, being from the same crop, you wouldn’t either.”  
Crowley shrugged, which was a weird motion due to his shoulder being on top of Aziraphale’s. He dimly remembered millennia ago where he and Aziraphale would sit near the river, him sun-bathing atop him in snake form as the angel would play with the fish or pick flowers. A smile touched his face and he reminded his angel of this memory, hoping to increase the livelihood of this dismal mess. “We were quite a pair back then, for sure. Things change so much and yet, so little too,” he remarked as he looked down fondly at Crowley.  
“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley finally summoned up the courage to begin.  
“Yes, my dear?”  
“You, you know…” the demon muttered, frustrated with himself in an already weakened state. He was fumbling with how to properly say what he meant. “You know that, all these six thousand years-”  
“I know, Crowley. I hope you do as well. Now. Now that things are like they are.”  
And that was the best either of them could put it at the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

When celestial beings roam an earth they aren’t used to, it has one of two effects: cause mortal confusion and curiosity, or create bitterness and impoliteness. In this case, the latter was occurring due to the Prince of Hell sitting awkwardly in a bistro - they thought that was what the sign had said - waiting for the other celestial being that scheduled this meeting to arrive. Feeling out of place due to the overall cleanliness and brightness, dimly reminding them of days before Falling, Beelzebub was fidgety and shooed away any waiter that was brave enough to ask for their order.  
“Gabriel, you’re late,” the fly-headed demon grumbled as their counterpart took his seat across from them.  
“Terribly sorry,” Gabriel spoke through gritted teeth, obviously not sorry, “but let’s just say that dealing with unruly angels is still not any better than it was before.”  
Beelzebub rolled their eyes and began to say something sharp when suddenly every human in the room froze in their current action and promptly left the bistro. Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief and took a large whiff of the air, freed from human spoil.  
“Well, here we are. I’ve been given some, er, questionable orders about how to forgo, but I’d like to hear what you have to say as well,” he smiled, tense but still polite. Beelzebub leaned back, finally relaxed in the absence of petty mortals, and scratched their maggot-infested chin. “Well, I’ve got my orders too. Not sure if they match. Was wondering...if you wouldn’t be opposed to...changing them.”  
Their last words fell flat as they both contemplated what that meant. The departments of both Heaven and Hell were run by their respective authorities and, even in most extreme cases, their Almighty Leaders left them to their own devices, trusting the skills of those appointed. Because of this tradition, Beelzebub and Gabriel were marvelled - and slightly frightened - to be standing in front of Satan and God, respectively. They were given terse orders and sent right along their way, still puzzled as to why they were chosen instead of those even higher up than them (moreso in Gabriel’s case than Beelzebub’s).  
“We were instructed to integrate the angels into the human population. Blur the line between celestial and mortal,” Gabriel cautiously continued, eyes flicking to Beelzebub’s pursed lips as if expecting an insect tongue to pop out and grab his nose for lunch. “We received the same instruction.”  
Uncomfortable silence unfolded. It was not often that Heaven and Hell were instructed to collaborate, Armeggedon being the only real example and even then, their cooperation was based in pure opposition. “Ya know what I wonder?” Beelzebub finally mused, going on without Gabriel’s persistence, “Wonder how so many angels and demons could just stay here on earth without...without messing it up.” Gabriel scoffed immediately, “You don’t mean to tell me you enjoy Earth as well?”  
Beelzebub made a gagging sound, throwing a few flies off balance around their head. “No, Satan’s bollocks I can’t even stand sittin’ here and whatnot. I’m talkin’ about like...you think the mortals will become...like us?” Gabriel crossed his legs, a sign that meant he was concentrating very hard on something he didn’t particularly like. His face remained passive as he spread his hands and said simply, “Won’t matter if we don’t do it.”  
Beelzebub made a smirk that made Gabriel shudder back slightly. “What shall we do instead though is moreso the question, don’t you think?” Beelzebub shrugged, throwing their leg up over the arm of the chair casually, as they often did on their throne in Hell. “I planned on just sayin’ Armeggedon was comin’ again and goin’ from there. Keeps spirits up, good deeds down, the lot. My group are pretty daft all ‘round.”  
Gabriel began nodding along to their words, digesting their plan as he formulated his own. “I can simply tell the angels the same. They all have their individual responsibilities as it is, anyhow. Just to be clear, you’re the only other one than me who knows the Orders?” The capital letter appeared as Gabriel accomplished his first successful attempt at emphasis. This emerging secret would need to remain that way. Beelzebub nodded once and gave a slight grunt in response.  
“Well, that very much settles it. We keep this between us two and no one has to know. Just say Armeggedon got delayed is all. We’ll be back to shape in no time. A few months is nothing in the grand scheme-”  
“Do you always talk this much?” Beelzebub drawled, distracted by a clean and polished area on their shoe. Gabriel looked taken aback, even slightly offended. “Well, we’d come to meet about Orders that would require complex logistical cooperation between the both of us. I thought we had an understanding.”  
Silence fell again, slightly different but still uncomfortable. Beelzebub simply shrugged and pried, hoping not to be caught doing so, “Where does that leave your Principality?” Gabriel huffed and fell dramatically back against his chair. “Do not get me started on that spineless excuse for a soldier. The archangel council has elected to ignore him unless otherwise called for.”  
Beelzebub made a face that Gabriel couldn’t quite place, but found himself looking into in search of...something. “We didn’t give Crawly the same treatment,” they cackled slightly, adjusting in their seat to lean across the table to Gabriel. “Gave him the good-right torture he needed. Never had a traitor like that in Hell, I promise you, sir. We keep things close to the chest.” Gabriel found himself leaning forward into their words, desperate to hear more from their perspective. Realizing this, Beelzebub snarled a nasty face, but couldn’t resist telling the story, even if it meant satisfying an angel.  
“Tore at his wings bit by bit. In his true form! Changed into his snakey one and we peeled scales off one by one, spitting his own venom into it! Then we grabbed all his feathers in one hand, dipped them in burning tar-and, and put them back on!” they were doubling over in glee while Gabriel’s face lit up, relishing in activities he’d missed so much from his time before the Heavenly Battle. “Then we...we, not me really, but a gang of the nasty demons, started beating him, beating him. He held out, of course, he’s a good demon, but you can only be tortured for so many weeks before you start gettin’ weak. Ha. Then we spat on his, all the demons watching - and you know they were watching.  
“After he’d survived the Holy Water we weren’t sure he could be beat, but we sure did it to him. Even double checked the Holy Water trick. Then, then, oh ya gotta listen to this part,” they excitedly began using their hands to express what was done to the demon and Gabriel found his smile growing wider and wider watching the small demon in front of him nearly foam at the mouth. “Tore off one of his claws - ‘e’s got claws in ‘is, uh, true form, yea. Took one of them and took his wings off - at the wing wrist! He bled and bled and bled, and lemme tell ya, he bled.  
“And get this too! He was calling after-oh listen listen-he was tryna summon yore, your Principality! Calling him by name and all that. But he was too weak by then to summon. He was just cryin’ like a wee thing. Someone, wish it were me, really really do, thought we should, oh Satan let me stop laughing. We manifested a fake Principality and then abused it in front of him!” Gabriel’s eyes widened and his chin rested in his hands, completely lost in the vivid detail of such horror.  
“But the lower demons got tired, and I had this meetin’ to prepare for,” Beelzebub’s eyes reverted from their bloodlusted mist back to their normal dull boredom. “Left him there to bleed out. Set 'm on fire as I left. He won’t have enough energy to recover and he’ll rot there.” Beelzebub, relaxed completely from the story, looked toward Gabriel as if he were their most prized confidant, for he was. The former was the only Prince of Hell and did most of the heavy-lifting around the establishment. It wasn’t often that they got the opportunity to simply exist without some framework of responsibility or ruthlessness.  
“And the angel...will forever mourn the demon. Excellent work Beelzebub. You deserve a commendation.” The words fell out of Gabriel’s smiling mouth before he could stop them. They both understood what a high compliment he just paid them, but neither chose to acknowledge it, still reeling from the near-high of such an enthralling story. “Well, I best get going. I have angels to corral,” he finally broke the silence, standing up from the table, beckoning Beelzebub to do the same. He reached into his coat, revealing a business card that slightly burned when they grabbed it. “We’ll meet again to discuss how things are going.” And with that he vanished, leaving a half-disgusted, thoroughly-confused Prince of Hell standing amid a bistro that was suddenly teeming with humans of the worst moral compass - hungry.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale expected Crowley to sleep for days, if not weeks, and was prepared to remain his pillow for the majority of that time if needed. Despite this assumption, as soon as the sun trickled in (or stole a glimpse here and there seeing as Crowley’s room seemed to be light-proof), Crowley rolled off the angel and headed towards what Aziraphale assumed was the shower. This was proven when he heard the water running a few seconds later. 

Taking this to mean things were getting on, Aziraphale traipsed to the kitchen and began cooking something, anything from the disarray of what resembled food from Crowley’s fridge and cupboards. He settled for a simple English breakfast and the kettle was just finished when Crowley walked in, wearing a dark bathrobe and his hair still dripping wet at his shoulders. “Coffee or tea?” the angel inquired as Crowley sprawled out at the table he had only sat at once before. 

The demon grumbled an answer before laying his head down on the table. The angel presumed he’d fallen back to sleep, leading to a nasty shock when Crowley’s hand reached his wrist as he placed the mug down. “If I tell you...you’ve got to stay calm. If you don’t...if you don’t you’ll never be able to find me again.” 

Aziraphale gulped slightly, nodding, as he sat down in the chair immediately across his demon. He steadied himself, tea in one hand, fork propped in the other. He tipped his head slightly, despite Crowley not looking in his direction, but the signal to go on was communicated either way.

“They dragged me back down. And it wasn’t even for treason. Just for not being a good demon I suppose. They realized that we’d...they assumed about the Arrangement and so they decided to torture me.”

Silence filled the kitchen as Crowley filled his glass up again, grimacing slightly at the bitterness. “Ligur survived though, angel. Figured that out when his boot hit my snout. Either way, they spent some time doing that. Left me for dead.”

Aziraphale patted his Adversary’s hand as it laid limp on the table in front of him. “It’s okay now, dear, I promise. You’re back. We’ll repair your wounds…” 

“Been having a bit of an existential something. Threw Holy Water on me, they did. Left me in fire. I knew it was Holy Water too. Felt like it used to, before the Arrangement.” Aziraphale quickly jerked his hand away and his eyes cast downward, slightly guilty for so many assumptions at Crowley’s expense. “But, like you said. I’m back. No harm, no foul.”

He jerked up, overfilled with angry emotions, and sneered at the chair as it fell down. “I’M A NICE PERSON, GOD-DAMN-IT!” He thrashed about, falling to the floor eventually, hoping Aziraphale would follow but also hoping the opposite as well. “Well, dearest, I’m a bastard. That’s how we’ve always been.” The angel slid down to his knees to comfort his demon who was rubbing his face in frustration. 

“I still think they’re going to try to take you ‘Zira. I can’t...I can’t handle that again.” The angel nestled up against the demon, one drinking tea, the other coffee. And through hushed whispers, the latter exchanged to the former all the dismal details of his unfortunate encounter. Things may just be alright, Aziraphale spoke to himself, as he rubbed Crowley’s red and black curls.

-

Things fell into a normal irregularity, consisting of them departing at night to separate rooms just to wake up in each others’ arms due to incessant nightmares, and soft conversations that eventually led to normal, loud, drunken ones. Eventually, Aziraphale almost completely forgot about his leaning away from Grace, having slightly been consoled by the demon that had already had a much worse experience. Hominess filled the once barren flat rented by a demon.

However, all good things come to an end.

After a night of heavy drinking, they both sobered up, finding themselves holding hands at the end of it, just as they had done at the end of the world. The demon was quite comforted by this, the angel, warmed. Wordlessly, as they often did nowadays, they agreed with each other and walked to one singular bedroom to prepare to do the sensible thing. 

Crowley stepped into the bathroom momentarily to brush his teeth and Aziraphale did something quite nostalgic for him. He prayed.

“Dear Lord,” his soft voice carried over the demon’s bed as he crouched beside it, eyes closed and the whole deal, “I’ve never doubted you. I positively believe in your ineffability and know that this is all written-out somewhere in your plots and plans. However, I want to show my gratitude, however I can, and I guess that’s with this praying thing I don’t often do. Mostly because we angels know how it disturbs you. Anyway, back on topic.

“I just wanted to thank you for Crowley. He was your Child too once, and, I don’t have to tell you that, I suppose. Anyway, you know that he has been one true blessing to me even if he were cast out of your Kingdom all those years ago. And I do say one more thing. If I am to Fall, I hope it is for my disobedience with the Sword, a right, proper disobedience, and not anything to do with Crowley. But I’m sure it won’t. Angelic love and all aside, I really do care for him and there’s nothing saying I shouldn’t.”

The angel on his knees with his eyes closed and lifted to the sky didn’t notice the pajama-pants-ed demon leaning against the doorframe, glad to be silent like a serpent. He simply watched with an empty grin as he listened to such kind words from the kindest being he knew. 

“Well, anyway. I do love you Lord, I simply despise the archangels is all. I hope you purposefully made me so different, and I’m sure you did, of course. I just wanted to say thank you for Crowley and I believe in the ineffability of how it will all work out, regardless. In Your Holy Name,” he finished as he crossed himself.

“Doesn’t make me ache anymore like it used to, angel,” Crowley spoke, a fond smile just barely hinting at his fanged teeth. Aziraphale jumped up, skittish suddenly about how he had been carrying on. He rushed to Crowley, wiping off invisible dirt from his untidy old band t-shirt. “Oh, dear, I didn’t even realize where I was when I did that...Forgot the effect I suppose?”

Crowley’s smile became more as a ghost and he glanced at his slippered feet, bordering on anxious. “Angel, I know it may be putting you out and all, but...my back is in awful shape and…” A slight flush covered the cheeks and neck of the demon as Aziraphale grabbed his wrists and smiled, the smile of a man - or man-shaped entity - that had been expecting this to come all this time, but was even more joyful that it truly were here. 

-

The bathroom was as sleek as the rest of the establishment Crowley had structured, but had slightly more plants lining the window sill than Aziraphale thought could physically be there. Either way, he enjoyed the feeling of lathering the soap that smelled oh-so-much like Crowley, and continued to do so despite the grittiness below.

Crowley crouched in the bathtub wearing old swim trunks, silently stomaching the slightly painful bathing he was receiving. “A little old, I must say,” was the only comment the angel had on this fact. The demon’s back was a conglomerate of yellow, green, purple, blue, and red, accented here and there with the most vivacious colors of demon blood, spit, and other assorted bodily fluids. 

Aziraphale kept himself from commenting on this particular nastiness, instead preferring to reveal Crowley’s occasional spot of scale that he often preferred not to mention. The angel’s hands were sudsy around the sponge that lathered both delicately and sternly at the back, careful around the unsprouted wings. 

“I miss the days when humans bathed each other,” the angel wistfully commented, met with a grunt from the ever-tiring demon. He didn’t like baths, preferring the perfect human invention of showers. He would get in there to have his Emotions but was much more likely to just miracle himself clean and smelling like his signature perfume. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale bathed anymore frequently though. The scent of dust and the appearance of frumpy never did quite escape the cosy angel, and an angel’s body naturally came clean. 

Aziraphale bit his lip as he realized the next step in this already elongated process. “Crowley…” was all it took for the demon to tremble a bit and extend what was left of his wings. The angel set to the harder task as Crowley shivered below him, hurriedly bringing the water back up to a near-boil that turned Aziraphale’s fingers a blotchy red. 

“Don’t know why they had to take my wings…” he spoke, obviously hurt. Aziraphale didn’t comment at first, tackling a particularly rough patch of Crowley’s dried blood over an unhealed wound. “I know it doesn’t help much, but you didn’t use them much before really.” Crowley shrugged, slightly unbalancing the dutiful angel at his shoulder blades.

“Used to. You know that. I’d go for miles and miles just flying. Spent a whole year doing it just to try.”

“Never did manage to stick the landing if I say so myself.”

Crowley slightly nudged him with his achy elbow, but was smiling. Aziraphale found himself completely immersed in the activity of touching more of Crowley than he ever had before. It was both endearing yet new. 

“Never knew you had so many scaly patches,” remarking about the large one just at the top of the demon’s neck. The iridescent black scales shimmered when the water rolled off them. The angel caressed them slightly as he focused on them. Crowley sighed a bit at that. “This old human body came before they’d worked out the kinks down in Hell, you know that better than me. No eyelids. No organs. Quite dysfunctional. Never thought to get rid of the scales.”

Suddenly, Crowley grew tense under Aziraphale’s hands, “Do you not like them?” he murmured. Aziraphale chuckled slightly, “They’re quite dear, you wily serpent. You are always quite full of surprises.” He pulled his hands back from the other man’s back and looked at his work. It was well-done, but brought a small frown to the tips of Aziraphale’s lips, due to his reasoning behind having to do what he had as well as the fact that it was over.

Crowley realized a moment or two later that his angel had finished and stood up, grabbing a towel on his way. “Let me get that,” Aziraphale offered, putting the towel to Crowley’s back, as graciously as possible. He heard the low hisses that the demon let slip as he did so. “If I could, I’d miracle it-”

Crowley shook his head, turning around slightly abruptly. “Are you sure you can’t miracle anything anymore?” Aziraphale scrunched up his eyebrows, focusing on relieving the pain of Crowley’s back - they’d even stabbed him with his own bone from the wing they tore off! The line that had rested between Crowley’s eyebrows these past few days - or weeks, no one had kept track - drifted away and he gave a low, breathy sigh. 

“Thanks, angel.” He grabbed a bathrobe before his gaze landed on the full length mirror on one wall. Biting his lip, he attempted to see his own back, shivering when he couldn’t. “Wish I could heal it. Not even get the wings back. Just heal the skin so that it covered the bone again,” the demon lamented before shrugging. 

This new deformity only led to his only being comfortable sleeping on his side, which was all the more beneficial to Aziraphale, who spent all night staring at the being he felt so lucky to have. He recalled the desperate times where they’d been in similar close counters, but they were always so distant.

He knew that resulted more from his fear of defying Heaven than Crowley’s lack of feelings. Or did he? Confused, he laid down his head, breathing in the fresh scent of Crowley, reaching to the musky brimstone, whiskey-dipped undertone he always had. He played with his curls, falling to his side as well, keeping his socked feet from tangling with the demon’s cold ones. Throughout the night, Crowley inched towards him, searching for warmth, but he hadn’t had a nightmare yet.

Aziraphale felt something off after a few minutes, but wasn’t immediately alarmed. He usually got a pit in his stomach ahead of time of Crowley’s nightmares, but this gnawed at him, while the demon rested as peacefully as ever. Suddenly, a wave of despair fell over the angel as he looked up to see none other than Uriel and Sandalphon. With them were Hastur and Ligur, who looked slightly surprised at the presence of Crowley, sleeping soundly, definitely not rotting in Hell where they’d last left him. 

Aziraphale, always stronger than he was given credit, quietly crept out of bed and insisted through bared teeth, “Let’s take this to the living room, shall we?” Despite his kindness and soldier strength, he was still largely outnumbered and found himself pinned up by Hastur, feeling his arms burning slightly at the contact that was so foreign from Crowley’s demonic one. Uriel was up-close to him, hissing something about how Gabriel was a fool to let him off so easily. The moment a drop of sweat beaded at Aziraphale’s brow, his handsome demon jumped into action.

He had a gun in his hand. He fired immediately at Hastur, hitting his shoulder, but not killing him. This led to Aziraphale being released and slapping the daylights out of Uriel, resulting in both Ligur and Sandalphon calculating their chances now that the numbers were much more even.

“What THE HELL are you doing in my flat?!” Crowley screeched, letting his forked tongue slip from his mouth, revealing fangs and assorted sharp teeth. Fire flared up slightly at his feet, heating up the whole room. Uriel recovered immediately and nodded at the demons. “Watch this,” and with that, she spread her wings, grabbing Aziraphale, now bound with his wings out, and leaping out the window with Sandalphon in tow. 

Crowley quickly healed up Hastur’s shoulder and put the gun down. Tears in his eyes, he begged, “Please, please take me to where my angel is. I’m sorry for the incident before. Have I not been punished enough?” Ligur haughtily laughed, neither of them knowing the Holy-Water-on-Ligur-incident he was referring to. Hastur waved his hand, perpetually locking him into this prison of a flat, and cracked a wide smile, showing off a frog’s distinct lack of teeth. He threw Crowley’s decimated wings at the demon’s feet and snickered, “Now you’re truly fallen. Wings and all-”

“Stripped!” 

They both vanished, evaporating into nothing as they presumably sank back down to Hell, content to let Crowley fall apart alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Hours turned into days, which eventually stretched to the infinitely long years. Crowley found himself pacing more often than he didn’t and found himself so detached from the human world that he had no completely sure idea of how much time had passed. At first he had simply fell to his knees and wept and wept and wept. He had his cursed wings back, at the expense of the only thing he loved more than humanity: Aziraphale.

Then he began plotting and scheming, in good fashion as he’d always done during his most demonic days. Every attempt to leave the flat - doors, windows, plumbing - left him back in his bedroom, panting and even more tired than before. He set to pacing, trying to come up with a way to summon Aziraphale. Angels were able to summon each other, humans could summon any celestial being, why should Crowley be excluded? But he was. 

He spent hours creating summoning circles out of chalk and candles or blood and hellfire, chanting the words until he became hoarse, thinking of Aziraphale until his heart nearly gave out. This proved unsuccessful every time, throwing the demon into a destructive spiral. 

He guiltily tried to discorporate himself. First he tried with alcohol poisoning, next was drowning. After that they became more and more elaborate. Apparently, Crowley figured, whatever Hastur had done to keep him in his apartment also kept his body from harm. He always murmured how much of a coward he was trying to kill himself instead of saving his angel, but after so long it seemed fruitless.

The perpetual hell he found himself attracted the worst type of celestial being as well. Demons flocked to his flat, inflicting unknown horrors to his limp body as he never could quite die. There were occasions where Dukes and Lords of Hell would bring in inexperienced demons in to train them without consequence. 

Every so often, Crowley would beg them to bring him to his angel, in exchange for whatever they wanted. But they always laughed in his face. They always assumed that was what a true sinner always said.

Eventually, and not quite strangely, angels began coming to see him. At first it was a simply cupid who, feeling the extreme feelings of affection for his angel during his summoning attempts, popped in to get a glimpse. Pity filled her face, but all she could offer him was a few tips for summoning and a caress of his hair. 

She apparently told someone in Heaven because more angels began trickling in, careful never to interfere with a demonic presence at work on him. Some enjoyed the puzzle of trying to figure out how to get him out without alerting Hell or Heaven. Others simply relished in relinquishing their own inner demons out on him in the form of torture that Crowley reasoned was actual worse than the demonic one he’d experienced. These events didn’t stop him from begging each angel to tell him where Aziraphale is. Just to tell him, so he would know he was okay. Mum was the word from all of them.

-

“You’re worthless. Always have been,” Gabriel spat in the Principality’s face. After Uriel and Sandalphon brought him back to Heaven, they didn’t restrain themselves long enough in their joy to avoid telling Michael, who in turn mentioned it to Gabriel. This began the cycle of psychological torture Aziraphale would be brought under for the next several years, decades. 

He was left alone for weeks on end, in the dark nonetheless. He’d been stripped naked, revealing his all-too-human form. Most angels only manifested the most necessary of things when exploring Earth, but Aziraphale, just before Eden, had picked each of his freckles precisely placed, weight down to the stone, and religiously manicured his nails. They poked at his belly, demeaning his beloved physique that he knew Crowley relished in so often. 

It was usually Gabriel that inflicted the torture, but he’d often bring in Michael, or his original kidnappers would come of their own volition, always in pairs.

Curious on a day they were all four present, they tried the Hellfire trick again, resulting in the same physical effect - nothing. Aziraphale was shocked to find that their body swap was unnecessary, but this fell to one of the least of his priorities at the moment. Michael enjoyed kicking him senseless while Gabriel snivelled at him about his love of Earth, his fraternising with demons, his stupid food. 

Aziraphale tried to keep himself from falling victim to them so soon, believing that, like always, his demon would save him. This never quite happened. The angel eventually gave up, not even bothering to whimper at their beatings and making a dull face at their comments. This led to sneers from Gabriel who couldn’t stand a passive victim and they left him alone for a long time after that. 

-

“Thiz izz the bezzzt my demons have come up with?” the Prince of Hell spoke out to no one in particular. Crowley stirred slightly, deformed and misshapen, but healing in rapid time all the same. Beelzebub had come alone. They had been promoted so high because of their notorious torture methods, most of which had been employed on the demon in front of them. That didn’t mean that Crowley was wrong when he spotted a hint of pity in the Prince’s face.

“Come here to torture me?” Crowley whispered with less venom than he had originally meant for. 

Beelzebub wiggled their nose a little before taking a stroll around the crippled demon before them. “Nah, not in the mood. Came to see what the fuzzz was ‘bout.” Crowley got up from his position on the floor, less dignified than he had hoped, and spit a tooth out from his mouth. “With all due ressspect,” he hissed, “I want nothing more than to know where my angel issss. Even if that meansss I’ll be tortured forever.” 

They were both silent for a long minute. Crowley threw himself onto his bed, trying to remember the smell of the angel that had slept in it so long ago. He knew that Beelzebub was here to taunt him.  _ Let them _ , he thought. He’d seen all but one Horseman of the Apocalypse. 

When he was trying to starve himself to discorporation, he’d seen Famine shifting in and out of his skeletal form, shaking his head before throwing a carrot in the demon’s direction. The first time he had tried to fight back against his abuse War appeared behind him, sneering, presumably on his side, but disappearing after the first fatal blow was dealt to his jaw. Pollution snuck in through the window when Crowley tried flooding his flat, slightly comforted by the smell of garbage as he drifting away. Pollution had a near-ecstasy look on his face before frowning as it all resorted back to its original form.

Only Death evaded the demon.

“I’ll zee what I can do,” they rasped before exiting.


	6. Chapter 6

“Gabriel, come here,” the prince beckoned to the archangel mischievously. The angel complied, falling on the stiff couch next to them. The years had passed where the Prince of Hell and Archangel of Heaven met once a month to discuss the Orders, the Diabolical Plan, and then, eventually, everyday trivialities. It soothed them both, despite scaring the, well, Hell, out of them both. 

Beelzebub rubbed Gabriel’s hair, roughly pulling his down close enough for them to do so. They’d moved their, er, relationship, a bit faster than the other respective angel and demon they knew in a similar situation. This didn’t mean they knew what they were doing, ever. 

Physical contact between an angel and a demon, biblically, had always meant that the demon had burned at the touch and the angel felt a lingering feeling of cold. Sometimes, usually in the case of pre-smiting, the demon’s skin would literally burn and smoke during contact, if it were the angel that was attacking. If it were the demon who initiated the offensive tactic, the angel would have the feeling of cold water filling up their lungs, whether they had any at the moment or not. 

Gabriel and Beelzebub often touched physically, most often without thoughts of smiting. This didn’t soothe the dull burn on Beelzebub’s mangled skin, or the shivering cold Gabriel always tried to hide. But it was getting better. 

“You should rethink it again, you know,” the prince mused. Gabriel, knowing exactly what they were referring to, blushed bright red. “It’s just not practical!” he snarled at the devious demon. “It would sure make me feel better, if you know what I mean,” they nuzzled him with their shoulders. “Then you should pick.” Tense silence filled the room, Gabriel obviously having said something he shouldn’t have. 

“Look,  _ mister _ , Hell doesn’t have to have bloody genderzzz. Heaven is so slow-minded that’zz probably the only way you can tell each other apart!” Gabriel reached to grab them as they abruptly stood from the couch.

“Beelz, babe, come here,” he added softly after a minute. They snarled at him, slapping at his chest that was at eye level with them. “You’re inzolent, ya know?” they spoke after awhile. Gabriel nodded, placing a kiss on her forehead, trying to avoid the pus-packets and flies swarming. 

Noticing his disgust, they took their pet fly off their head and miracled away the pus and maggots, still maintaining birthmark-like red blemishes. “Better?” they grumbled as Gabriel pulled them into a large embrace. Their relationship had not emerged with affection, presenting much more physical than of mutual likeness. That proved a disaster due to the unpleasant feelings surrounding it, but it led to even more secrets, which became a relationship they both quietly wanted to work very much.

“Now, I want something from you,” Beelzebub spoke in their Prince of Hell voice. “Crawly is trapped by your angels in London, tortured daily. Your angels took the Principality and, well…” Gabriel’s eyebrows raised up, not noticed by his partner below. “Look, he’s been punished twice. Once for treason, the other for their Arrangement. Same with the Principality. I can’t quite zzay it doezn’t feel hypa-hypocritical of us to punish them both for...ya know.” Their voice fell flat. 

Gabriel reluctantly sighed, hoping to appease his new, and only, best friend. He nodded, “I’ll let him out. You can set the demon free.”

-

Crowley woke up from one of the best naps he’d ever had, not sure how long he’d been sleeping, but certain he’d woken up to find further torture. He was surprised, not quite pleasantly, to see Archangel Gabriel and Prince Beelzebub in the middle of his bloodied floor. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, hoping not to lock eyes with the angel that he’d never properly been introduced to. 

“Get up, Crawly,” they finally spoke to break the silence. They ensured they were standing far enough away from Gabriel so as to not reveal their secret. “Name’s not Crawly,” he grumbled as he rolled out of bed, begrudgingly miracling some clothes on. Gabriel didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the demon so he added, “It’s Crowley, my Lord.” 

Beelzebub nodded, rolling their eyes through the process. Gabriel finally got a full look at Crowley, covered in scars and unhealed wounds, hair falling in tangled curls over his shoulders, and eyes empty of any hope or life. Something was at the tip of Gabriel’s brain, but he couldn’t quite place it, and Crowley sensed this, immediately saying, “You here to torture me as a tag-team or wot?”

Gabriel shook his thoughts away as his partner began speaking, “We’re here to free you from your prison. The punishment far outweighed the crime, even at Hell’s standards.” Gabriel and Beelzebub worked together to break down the prison and Crowley gave a sigh of relief, not quite knowing why. “Thank you,” he shakily offered to them both, causing a pause in the two authorities. “What did you say your name was again?” Gabriel finally asked. 

The demon gulped, feeling his nerves rise up his throat. “Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. Used to be Crawly, but not for a while.” The archangel whispered a question into Beelzebub’s ear before standing up even taller than before. “The Archangel requests your true name. From before the Fall,” Beelzebub declared, becoming more uncertain with each word.

“I’d really prefer to go get my angel now if you wouldn’t mind. Really have a lot of ground to cover-” 

“Answer the question,” Gabriel’s demand pinned his feet to the floor, perpetually shutting his mouth in the process. 

-

_ “Gabriel, watch out!” a singsong voice spoke out over the seven bystanders. The air was cool against Jehoel’s brilliant wings as he glided down next to Gabriel and Seraphiel. “Your aim is impeccable as ever,” the latter spoke as the flier broke his fall on top of him. “It’s all for fun though, isn’t it?” A laugh resonated from the group.  _

_ \/ _

_ The angel muttered slightly undignified things as he stormed out of the throne room. He spotted Lucifer headed to walk in. “I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s a mood for sure.” The most beautiful angel of all of Heaven stopped to smile warmly at his superior, Jehoel. “It can’t be that bad. What is it this time?”  _

_ “He denied, again, my request to give the humans the Presence. He says that that would cause infinite catastrophes! Whatever that means,” Jehoel muttered again to show his point. Lucifer chuckled slightly, nearly rivalling Jehoel’s singing voice. “Come with me. I’ll help you forget this whole issue.” _

_ \/ _

_ “Where did you have to go yesterday?” Janiel, his other half, questioned with an edge to her voice. Jehoel’s gaze was centered across the river at a blond-haired angel sitting calmly amongst friends. He was surrounded by Dominions, but Jehoel did not recognize him. The high order of angels were usually resolved to mingle amongst themselves. _

_ “Had a chat with some Cherubim, that’ss all,” was his eventual reply to a softening Janiel. “You were with Lucifer again weren’t you? Goodness me I don’t know why you’re so hung up on him and his gang of ruffians. You’ve got much better company than those low-level angels.” Jehoel’s eyes flicked back once again to the Dominion that was now laughing jovially, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.  _

_ “What’s so bad about low-level angels?”  _

_ Janiel groaned a bit before mumbling something about “You and your questions” before resuming her categorization of the choirs of angels. Jehoel let out as a sigh as he turned from the beautiful sight and returned to his own work. _

_ \/ _

_ “I just don’t understand why the Great Plan excludes mine and Janiel’s part for the humans!” Jehoel exhaustively cried. A nearby angel with blond hair perked up and slowly approached. Gabriel looked at the end of his rope with his dear friend. The Archangel Seraphim was much more accustomed to giving excess kindness to prevent angels from going astray, but that never quite seemed to work for Jehoel, who wasn’t exactly going astray. _

_ The Dominion angel inched even further and offered a soft word, “I do think the humans will be wonderful either way.” Gabriel found himself looking at a lower-level angel who had so insubordinately spoke. “Now, child, remember your proper address to your superiors, please,” he reminded through a soft smile that had never quite failed him. The lower angel seemed not to hear him. _

_ Jehoel used his hand to shoo away Gabriel’s request and spoke, “I believe they will as well, Presence or not.” Of course, being a lower angel, the Dominion didn’t quite understand what that meant, but introduced himself nonetheless. “Aziraphale, and you are?” _

_ Gabriel slightly gasped at the angel’s ignorance of some of the most powerful angels there were. However, Jehoel seemed charmed as he gave both of their names and walked away with, questioning all the same, next to the Dominion, abandoning Gabriel. _

_ “Well, I thought kindness could heal all,” he muttered. _

_ \/ _

_ “No, Father, he can’t Fall!” Janiel remarked, witnessing her second half crouch on his knees, burning up the ground below. The Heavenly Battle had already been fought, the Seraphim acting as a team throughout, except for Gabriel who commanded the leading troops. The other Fallen Angels, including Lucifer himself, had already been cast out of Heaven in a fiery display of godly fury.  _

_ Jehoel had wandered up to the Throne Room, led slightly by his newly-acquired pet Aziraphale. “Ah, Gabriel, sorry to bother you, but Jehoel has been acting weird.” Exhausted from the battle and feeling the weight of having lost so many brethren, Gabriel less-than-kindly directed the pair to Janiel. Immediately, they all realized what was happening. _

_ “You think he was right, Lucifer,” Janiel had whispered as she had grabbed Jehoel’s shoulder. He winced before nodding, asking incoherently, “Why should the humans suffer because of God’s stubbornness?”  _

_ He immediately fell to his knees, engulfed by Holy Flames, tears ripping at his eyes. “I don’t deserve to Fall and you all know it!” he screamed before making a disappointed face, extending his wings and flying out of the Throne Room and away from Heaven before falling in the typical manner.  _

_ Janiel fell to the ground, tears filling her eyes. God called upon her and she followed hopelessly. Every angel would later learn that the loss of one’s second half would result in a new identity all-together. Janiel became the Metatron, the spokesperson for God, made of pure Essence and saved from the odious task of remaining in any given form. She would speak to the humans later to come, proving to herself again and again that Jehoel had been right. _

_ Gabriel angrily turned to the other seven people in the room, six Seraphim and one Dominion. Seraphiel pleaded slightly, “Gabriel, please don’t,” but that didn’t stop the actions already spinning in the Archangel’s head. He was granted as a leader of angels for a reason. “Aziraphale, for your collusion with the Fallen Angel Jehoel, I sentence you to a demotion of a full choir. You will hereby be Principality Aziraphale and will await God’s orders for you.” _

_ \/ _

_ The Garden of Eden stretched out across the Principality’s eyes and he found himself content. He’d felt pure emptiness before he was delivered by God to guard the Eastern Gate, but now found a passion for being an angel in Her Image. He didn’t remember anything but what Heaven looked like before he’d been delivered to Eden, and he was disturbed by that. _

_ \/ _

_ Gabriel sat at the Western Gate, keeping an eye on Aziraphale, watching the Serpent of Eden tempt Eve. He noticed as the snake slithered up to the Principality and the archangel sneered. If it were him, he would have smited the demon then and there for ruining Her Masterpiece, but Aziraphale conversed with the demon kindly.  _

_ He then witnessed God asking after Aziraphale’s flaming sword that he had previously seen in Adam’s hands and chuckled. The Principality was going to properly Fall for all his insolence. Gabriel watched the lowly angel swallow as he lied to the Almighty, but he didn’t fall. Nothing more was mentioned about the experience. _

_ \/ _

_ Gabriel made sure to snarl at his Hellish contemporary as he stepped onto the tarmac at the Tadfield Airbase. Pure unbridled hated filled his celestial veins, burning him up like he’d never experienced before. Not only was Armeggedon not going to happen, but the stupid Principality was at the source of it, with a demon no less.  _ I bet it’s the same demon as before,  _ he angrily murmured to himself as he planned how he would go on with these new Orders. _

-

“Jehoel,” the demon spoke quietly as Gabriel’s repressed memories flooded to the front of his brain. Beelzebub stepped a bit closer as the archangel wavered on his feet considerably. Crowley looked away, focusing on something in the distance instead of anywhere near his superiors. 

Beelzebub was a little lost in the dialogue between their partner and their employee, but listened politely as they spoke. “Jehoel, I never thought...I’d forgotten about you,” Gabriel stammered out. Beelzebub had never seen his facade shake and waver like what they saw now. “Look, Gabriel, let’s let bygones be bygones. I appreciate you helping get me out, but I really want to see my angel.”

Gabriel gulped, standing up a little straighter, looking greener than Hastur, and nodded. “Let’z go get him then,” Beelzebub finally initiated.

-

Crowley, if he was disturbed by walking in Heaven, was visibly not concerned. Beelzebub and Gabriel stayed in front of him, whispering in hushed tones about their past lives and such. Beelzebub, being a demon, remembered their time in Heaven both fondly and coldly. She was always envious of the angels that were revoked of their memories after the Heavenly Battle. Due to the nature of demons though, Heaven before the Fall was never discussed within the confines of Hell. 

After Gabriel briefed them on his time in Heaven and how the respective angel and demon played into it all, he cautiously asked what her name was before, having a guess already prepared. “Nephelix.” A companionable silence filled the room before Beelzebub turned towards Crowley. “I’m sure he remembers me from then.”

Crowley nodded, ashamed all of a sudden. He’d been a powerful Seraphim before he Fell and was nothing but a lowly demon now, reaping some advantage from his powers before, but not many. Beelzebub was now his superior and they had been Nephelix, an Ophanim, guarding the throne room he’d frequently visited. They now did a similar job, guarding Satan’s throne, but in the sense that they resided in it instead. 

“You were really the most ruthless of them all. Never got the credit you deserved,” Crowley mumbled, feeling himself shrink away from his original self more and more. They finally arrived at a large gray door that Gabriel squinted his eyes at before opening.

-

Aziraphale found himself looking up at Gabriel with the same disinterest he’d had for all the hundreds of times before that the same scene had played out. He laid his head back down, not noticing the Prince of Hell entering. “Get up, Prinzipality,” a distantly familiar voice rang out to Aziraphale’s ear. He found himself miracling on some clothes and sitting up stiffly, awaiting what would follow.

His eyes widened as he witnessed his knight in shining armour entering his eternal cage. “Crowley,” he yelped, attempting to run towards him but restrained with chains as he had for so long he’d forgotten. Crowley instead rushed to him, pulling him into a tight embrace, their tears both silently falling down their faces. 

“Crowley,” Gabriel’s voice spoke out, guilt and shame ridden all through it, “we won’t bother you two again. I just ask that...that you tell him when, if, you can.” Beelzebub grabbed his hand as Gabriel attempted to remain strong in the face of such emotion. Crowley released Aziraphale from his shackles and they both leaned against the other as they rose. 

“Gabriel, you know where to find us. Beelz, keep Hell stylish for me.”

Aziraphale gave a lazy signal of disrespect to them both as his head lolled onto his demon’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel spoke, kindness illuminating his face into something truly angelic, “I’m truly sorry.”

Crowley nodded, huffing as he teleported himself and Aziraphale away. 


	7. Chapter 7

Gabriel found himself needlessly crying into Beelzebub’s sash and suit jacket later that night, filling them in to little tidbits about his life before such misery as an angel. He wondered if he were even truly forgivable after all he’d done. He’d been God’s Messenger until he wasn’t, the Kind Angel, until he wasn’t. Beelzebub let him cry, dropping kisses that they immediately wiped away in half-faked disgust. 

“I think we should obey our Orders,” Beelzebub’s soft voice spoke, without a hint of her usual speech impediment. As Gabriel looked up, they looked as they had before it all had gone downhill. Dark tresses falling long down her back, bright gray eyes shining in triumph while protecting the throne room, quirky glances at misplaced jokes at entrance to the throne room. They’d known each other Before, but not really. 

Gabriel found himself nodding, realizing how stupid he’d been when he denied God, and all the celestial beings really, the relief of things settling like they had been Before, but with a renewed sense of individuality. “I agree,” he murmured, before being drawn to bed by his small partner and curling up next to them, not needed to sleep, but nonetheless hoping to dream.

-

“Aziraphale, what have they done to you?” Crowley whispered as he bathed his angel, returning the favor from years and years ago - he still hadn’t had time to figure out exactly how long ago. The angel wasn’t crying, but looking out into the distance as if his soul were weeping. “Can...can you hear me?” the demon finally asked. Aziraphale dipped his head down in affirmation and continued being lathered. 

“I remember, but you probably don’t. The first time we star gazed. We were so close to them back then. ‘S really amazing when you think about it. We talked and talked and talked. I asked questions, you listened to me ramble on, never answering, but never discouraging like everyone else did. You were beautiful. Beautiful in a different way than the Morning Star. You didn’t scold me about that, but you didn’t know exactly, but I knew you didn’t like it.”

Aziraphale winced as Crowley went over some still-healing bruises, but relaxed into his touch almost completely as Crowley continued talking. “It was your idea about fruit. I brought them to Him and He loved the idea. Said He’d put a big ol’ one in the middle of His Paradise. Ha. If only I’d known then that it would be me that would ruin his Paradise using that very tree. A little daft of Him anyway.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, adjusted them both in the water so that he was facing him. The demon himself was still filthy, but his pupils were wide with adoration and fear at the angel’s touch. “I know you would save me,” he said with the soft smile that seemed to have been made just for his celestial face. Overwhelmed, Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand that had grabbed his own and whispered, “Can I-” before he found himself embraced by his angel first. Nothing more had to be said at the moment.

-

“Crowley, you’re so filthy!” It had taken Aziraphale three days to completely recover to his old self, helped solely by his faithful demon. Crowley had teleported them to the bookshop from Heaven, anxious to be anywhere but his flat, and from there he had ensured that Aziraphale was as comfortable as possible. He told funny stories, retold sad movies, and comforted the angel. He mentioned nothing about either incident of torture, but he didn’t need to for Aziraphale to know that something treacherous had occurred.

By the time Aziraphale’s strength was recovered, Crowley helped him discover his miracles again, which they never reasoned why they’d been zapped in the first place. From here, the angel rushed to put his healing hands to his own saving grace and thoroughly cleaned Crowley head to toe. Despite his rapid healings and restorations, his body was still littered with assorted scars and displacements. But, every night, Aziraphale pulled him closely in bed, and, by the light of the lamp, counted each scaly spot to make sure they were all there, unscathed and unscarred. 

Aziraphale’s bed was slightly more uncomfortable than Crowley’s, due to its disuse and age, but that didn’t stop the both of them from falling asleep in it each night after their predicament. His kitchen, however, was much more convenient and they ate all three meals in them (and pretty often snuck snacks behind the other’s back). Neither were eager to go back out into the world that had trekked on without them all these years - twenty-three to be exact, they finally realized. 

“We’ve missed both weddings!” Aziraphale exclaimed one day when they were both reclining on the couch, reminiscing over old humans. This led them to discover the place of burial for Mister and Missus Shadwell in a village cemetery outside London. They also learned that the wedding of the Pulsifers had resulted in five beautiful children that were now all older than Adam had been when the angel and demon had met him. The Them and Adam were all off doing their own things: Wensleydale was a leading meteorologist and climatologist with his own Junior, Brian was a contented garbageman that had settled down with Greasy Johnson’s adopted sister, Pepper lived with both her girlfriends in America now, a professor of women’s studies, and Adam, less of an Antichrist than he had been, spoke lectures on the most compelling theological theories across the world. 

Despite this new knowledge, they still remained inside the bookshop, never opening it up to the public and instead advertising it as a library - a closed one, that is. Now that Aziraphale had developed the habit of sleeping, he required that the bedside lamp remain on, never escaping his fear of the dark that he’d spent so long in. It took endless from coaxing, but Crowley finally convinced his angel not to lose any weight, the weight he’d been made fun of ruthlessly in Heaven. 

Crowley, one sleepless night, pried himself from Aziraphale’s side and put his wings into shadow boxes that hung on the wall in the bedroom. He had no exact desire to spend the agony reattaching them, but liked to remind himself that he had been the best flier in all of Heaven once. Some of his wounds, internal and external, never did heal, and he found himself carrying a cane out of comfort for his aching hip. Aziraphale never commented on this, nor his lack of normal saunter, and Crowley appreciated it. 

“Helps me keep up with you, dear,” was the only remark Aziraphale had about the cane. The angel hemmed his jackets to ensure that his wrists were hidden by the sleeves, embarrassed about his restraint marks. “Need a hand massage?” was all Crowley offered about his opinion in the matter. They each carried small reminders of baggage, but healed together, something they’d never had the chance to do before. 

-

“My angel,” Crowley spoke one day over breakfast, steeling his nerves for the moment he’d never been ready to see come. Aziraphale came over, ruffling his hands in his demon’s long red and black curls, now showing a glint of gray at the temple, and urged him to continue.

“You don’t remember Before, do you?” Aziraphale shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure you have theorized...but we knew each other then. We were close friends for a short period.”

No one said anything for a moment. “Makes sense,” the angel finally offered, hoping that Crowley would tell him the whole story instead of making him  _ theorize _ . “Well, you were a Dominion, not a Principality,” his Adversary began, insisting the angel not make a comment as he surged forward.

“I was a Seraphim. With Gabriel, Seraphiel, all them. My second half was Janiel, the Source of the Whole of Existence. I was the Mediator of the same thing. Involved in the maintaining of the balance of the world and all that was Present. Anyway, you know I asked a lot of questions. And during the Heavenly Battle, I fought with God, sometimes...sometimes less than accidentally getting a hit for the opposition. I Fell after Lucifer and the other demons did.”

He sipped a bit of coffee, allowing the silence of the bookshop to feed Aziraphale’s imagination for a moment. “Janiel was without her second half. She is now who you know to be the Metatron. But Gabriel, he was distraught, not understanding why such a powerful angel should have to Fall. Well, you were my most constant companion, controversially so because you were three ranks below me. He punished you for your continued kindness towards everyone and disregard for rank.

“He demoted you to Principality and then later became your boss. I don’t think he ever got over the fact that he was beat by a lesser angel, which is probably why he treats you so badly now.” Another sip of coffee. Continued silence. Aziraphale had his typical frown lines employed as he thought over what this entailed.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” was the only question the angel felt was worth asking. Crowley sighed, draping his arm over the shoulder of his one constant companion. “Wasn’t ‘propriate. Our forms are different, our emotions all scattered.” They spent the next few hours discussing minor details of the story that Aziraphale needed to know, even if Crowley was hesitant to relay them to his angel. 

-

The nightmares never did stop, but Aziraphale didn’t quite mind. His nightmares came as phobias during the daylight, so he assumed this was Crowley’s form of subconscious coping. The angel didn’t know the degree to the torture, but could imagine given the outbreaks during the night. The demon explained the prison of his flat and the continual healing of his body, but never elaborated more than that. The displayed wings were enough to deter any prying questions. 

Crowley also didn’t dwell on the angel’s new peculiarities. He ate considerably less, if at all. He could hardly stand to read a full novel without getting jittery and needing Crowley to hold him. There always had to be a light gleaming in each room of the house, and he no longer allowed candles or fireplaces of any type. He requested his vintage gas stove be replaced with electric, but let Crowley install it alone. Neither individual spoke of these new unspoken rules, but they never needed to. 

It did lead to some advantages though. They still slept in the same bed every night - Aziraphale didn’t even have a guest room like Crowley did - and allowed each other more closeness than they’d ever had before. They still held hands, more often than they didn’t, really, and frequently filled the empty spaces in each other’s laps when they occupied the couch. The first time Aziraphale kissed Crowley with intent was when he was tending to the demon’s still-open wing wound. He pressed his lips gently to each shoulder blade and Crowley shivered beneath the touch. 

The next time Aziraphale did it was on Crowley’s forehead after a particularly nasty nightmare. “Do...do it again...please,” the demon had asked quietly, still shaking in his angel’s arms. Aziraphale calmly pressed one kiss after another to his forehead, chin, cheeks, but never anywhere but there. 

When Crowley was relaxing as a snake in a small spot of sunlight from the window, Aziraphale came to sit next to him. It was then that the angel was finally reciprocated as the demon’s reptilian snout pressed against the angel’s grinning lips. Nothing shifted between them except for Crowley slithering further into his angel’s lap. 

“I think it’s time we venture back outside. We’re getting to be a bit like these old books on their shelves,” Aziraphale mused on day, nuzzled up against Crowley, who was reading to him. Crowley granted him a kiss to his fluffy near-white curls and reminisced quietly about the first time he’d done that to Aziraphale, Before. But the demon agreed and Aziraphale turned to lock eyes with Crowley, the latter placing the book on the table next to them. 

“Thank you, my dear,” the angel whispered, pressing his forehead to the other man’s. Crowley shook his head, giving Aziraphale that same fond smile he used just for him. “No, thank you, my angel.” And that was when Aziraphale pressed a much-needed kiss to Crowley’s still-smiling lips. It didn’t seem like a big deal to either of them at the time, but they were both relieved to have the first - first ever, including Before - out of the way so they could enough the ones to come after. 


	8. Chapter 8

It took longer than they both expected, but by the time the first snow stuck in London, the Collaboration went underway, led by Beelzebub and Gabriel. Each demon was matched up with an angel, starting at the highest level of both hierarchies. Dukes of Hell Hastur and Ligur were unamused to be split up from their millenia-long partnership to be forced to _fraternise_ with Cupids, of all angels. Their new partners, Vida and Carys, respectively, felt just the same.

Gabriel and Beelzebub had diligently and strategically matched their employees with each other, hoping for as much success as possible. They felt that they should all relate on at least one principle or common likeness. Gabriel and Beelzebub were both authority figures while Crowley and Aziraphale were both in love with humanity. The Seraphim, Cherubim, and Orphanim were the first to be matched because of their small numbers and inherent stubbornness. Because of this, the Princes, Lords, and Dukes of Hell fit just swell with them.

The secluded basement ballroom the Prince and Archangel had chosen had pairs of chairs lining the room where they would have to find their required seating across from a previous nemesis. The demons, dripping with remnants of Hell, disgusted the clean angels, but they exuded such naivety the demons couldn’t stop rolling their eyes. 

As the two leaders stood a bit back, watching the mutual disgust and discomfort unfold, fear gnawed at them both. This plan was not easy to implement, especially so soon after the failed Apocalypse. “Maybe we should’ve started with our lower level employees,” Gabriel spoke, chewing on his lip and leaning closer into his significant other. “Bollocks. We’re good leaderz. We can handle this.”

“Greetings, High Powers of Hell.”

“And the High Choir of Heaven,” Beelzebub added, acting much more behaved than expected. “Orders have been given by the Highest of Authorities to begin a Collaboration mission that you have all been briefed on. Your partner in crime-”

“And goodness,” the Archangel interrupted.

Gritting their teeth, they continued, “You will serve as each others’ confidants until it is decided by authorities that the mission has been accomplished or that it never will.”

“My dear angels, I beg you to remember that these were your Brothers and Sisters before they made mistakes Before. Such animosity has grown between us, but if you look very closely, mimicking Her Own Graciousness and Mercy, I truly believe you will able to grow to enjoy your partner.”

“And you ruthless demons, you have the memory of Before that your partner has been deprived of. It is your leaders’ belief that this is a good starting point for companionship between the two of you. However, while this may seem like an off-hand...what do you call it...dating service, there are consequences on both sides for failure to comply with Holy or Unholy Orders.”

Gabriel nodded, impressed at his partner’s ability to restrain their impediment when publicly speaking, “You are all role models to less talented and much dumber angels and demons. Remember that as you will all hopefully try your _hardest_ to accomplish what is required of you.”

“We are starting this relationship here, in a confined space with chaperones, to ensure that the match has been made appropriate and proper. Use this time wisely because after this, you will all be released to your given establishments on Earth to act as mortals temporarily. Underztood?” There were nods and grunts, but the audience understood what the stakes were, despite the horrendous task before them.

-

Dagon sneered at Uriel again for the latter’s incessant need to grip her wrist sternly. Taking the sharpened teeth as a warning, the angel finally began realizing the inherent danger she might be in. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. We’re both no better than right-hand-women and are treated as such, most of the time.”

“This is just humiliating,” the gold-specked warrior angel retorted. They nodded in agreement, eyes meeting for the first time, signifying that maybe they did have something in common. Uriel began discussing how obnoxious Dagiel was, a fellow sea-lover, and Dagon relaxed slightly as she insulted and jeered.

Hastur was in the middle of explaining his favorite scheme he conducted with Ligur to Vida when she began giggling. “I remember hearing about that! Such ingenuity for that time,” her pink pupils twinkled beneath her batting eyelashes. Almost all Cupids looked the same, or so Hastur had thought before. He’d never known an angel to have such a mischievous glint to their beautiful eyes. Nor did a Cupid ever know a demon to have a friend at all, much less a healthy friendship with a best friend. 

Cupids were the busiest angels most of the time. Humans always fell in love with each other, and Vida and Carys were in charge of this particular type of love. Other Cupids handled inanimate objects, pets, concepts, but that was a bit too under their pay grade they felt. Vida and Carys both decided during this meeting with their partners that they had much more in common with the two demons than they ever could have thought possible. They’d never shot an arrow into the heart of a demon - there had been a rumor of that happening, just once though - but they knew that these two must have been hit by their friend Melek who handled best friendship.

Ligur was mystified by this angel that was so obviously vain, from her straight, platinum hair, precious pink nail polish, and perfectly sculpted lips, that surely she should have Fallen. Especially since she never shut up. He was swept up in her never-ending retellings of what she called “pity humans” and their “desperate brain slimes” that made up her job. When he could get a word in edgewise, he found himself reflecting the same idea of humans to her, which made her bare her slightly-too-sharp-for-an-angel teeth. 

“I like you. Glad I got one I could tolerate,” she finally commented.

A few tables down, Duchess Bast was absolutely purring at Briathos who was absentmindedly - and quite lazily - sharpening her daggers. Briathos, immediately post-Heavenly Battle, worked closely with Michael about smiting as many demons as possible. It wasn’t until pre-Jesus when she encountered Bast that she gave up smiting and retired to aid the other Essence Angels in coordinating the Seasons. 

Bast relished in seeing her worthy opponent before her again, but inwardly sobbed at how sloth-like she had become. The two cats at Bast’s feet didn’t seem to mind their master’s partner and they immediately began rubbing up against the armour-clad angel. Bast’s feline eyes looked up and down her new partner with satisfaction as Briathos’s veiled ones simply gazed at her slowly. They were both up to this challenge.

Not all interactions were going as planned though, as to be expected. Purah, the notoriously forgetful angel, had misplaced the time of this meeting and arrived late. Ipos, notoriously meticulous about timing and presentation, was steeming mad, tapping his fingers against the table, creating scratch marks accompanied by smoke. While he was apart of the lucky few angels that appeared slightly as beautiful as the angels, his true form was disgusting and never allowed him comfort. A goose and hare attached themselves to his ankles so that his walk, once delicate and flowy Before, was now laborious and laughable.

Purah, a very beautiful angel, disguised by the most treacherous ugly clothing and accessories possible, flew in, windswept and red-faced. Ipos was not impressed, but found himself staring quite egregiously at her round, golden glasses that matched her ever-present halo. He remembered her very vividly. Angered at the injustice at being torn from his mate because of his Fal just to be reunited again all these millennia laterl, he roared upward, face contorting to one of a lion and screamed for Beelzebub.

“If I don’t get a new partner, I’ll DESTROY THE WHOLE LEGION!” he bellowed, echoed by the intense quacking and thumping of his agitated accompaniments. Beelzebub sneered at him, whispering something about his weakness as a prince of Hell and declared that he’d been given a _soft_ angel for a reason. Caught between defensiveness for his once-mate and offensiveness about his treatment, Ipos sputtered away, leaving a trail of cat hair, rabbit droppings, and goose feathers.

“Let’s just get this over with, doll,” he grumbled at the frightened petite frame in front of him that was in the midst of pulling out folders and notebooks that never seemed to help her stay organized despite her efforts.

Zarall was probably one of the most bored of all the Cherubim. He’d been demoted from Seraphim following some incident or another, leaving him to the dirty job of guarding the ark of the covenant. What a nightmare that was. He hated humans and demons alike, and found them at about the same caliber of disgusting. So when the Princess of Darkness Melchiresa seated themselves in front of him, he nearly gawked. He’d battled with them decades over while he was still on guard duty, before they both inevitably retired to their celestial host homes. 

Zarall was infinitely restless in Heaven, spending hours coming up with activities that would forever bug humans as what they would call “fidgeting.” Meanwhile, Melchiresa, now promoted to Princess, delegated all her Darkness duties to in-training demons and remained motionless, still as a statue. Belial, her humble servant before his demise, always sat next to her so she’d relay all information through him using their telepathic bond. Belial had been punished severely when he denied Melchiresa’s attendance to a Dark Council meeting. 

Melchiresa cocked her head to the side, the first movement she’d made during the entirety of this meeting, remembering Zarall from before, when her name was Sabrathan and was she was less “she” than she was now. She asked herself if they’d placed high ranking demons with high ranking angels because of the fact that most of the former had been the latter Before the Battle. Either way, she wasn’t fond of Zarall Before and she definitely wasn’t now under such awful conditions. So she remained still and he remained restless.

-

“It’s going about as well as could be expected,” Gabriel spoke as he broke apart Adramelech and Rachiel from tearing at each other’s clothing in both contexts, and sternly disciplining Ruman from debating endlessly (and uselessly) with Tap. Beelzebub nodded, punching Gremory before they could deliver the same to Temeluch. “Haven’t had this much fun since B.C., if you know what I mean,” they winked at their partner amidst the chaos. It had already dawned on some of the more amiable partnerships that they should reflect the friendliness Gabriel and Beelzebub had already established, seeing it less as a punishment and more of a breath of fresh air they hadn’t had before.

The Prince and Archangel, however, saw this as an opportunity to stop hiding their true feelings. Landing quick-witted jabs towards the other while pressing sincere kisses all the same broadcast to both audiences where their leaders stood in their own mission. It would be a long process, but most of them believed it to be worthwhile.

-

Aziraphale was crying into Crowley’s shoulders about something he’d already wept over countless times. “I can’t believe...the first time...I wanted to go so badly...Oh Crowley, dear, how impermanent humans truly are.” Every year when the anniversary of any of their previous human acquaintances’ deaths arrived, Aziraphale became a blubbering mess and took multiple steps backwards in their plan to get back into the human world.

Crowley simply let him wrap around his frame, content to be there for his warm, round angel as much as he could. “I don’t quite feel like going out today, dear. I really just...want to be alone.” It had taken months for them both to feel comfortable enough with their trauma to believe that the other would be safe for the short periods of time they allowed themselves separation. But, like most things, they understood the other completely, no matter the bluntness nor the vagueness. 

Crowley took this opportunity to cradle his angel in his arms, lift him up from the couch, and walk him upstairs to their bedroom. As if handling a small infant, Crowley gently placed his Adversary under the duvet, snapping him into his favorite pajamas, caressing his forehead softly, and summoning a hot cup of cocoa. The angel whimpered a little, not wanting to move from his cocoon, but still wanting a goodbye kiss. Crowley complied and whispered, “I’ll be home soon, my angel.”

The demon was on a mission as he traipsed through the crowds of people in central London. He drove significantly less nowadays because, frankly, he’d forgotten how to and it still frightened himself and his companion. He jiggled the money in his pocket, knowing that it was dangerous to carry about that much cash at one time, but also realizing that he was, indeed, a demon capable of great evils. His mind drifted to the letter sitting on his bedside table, sealed from Aziraphale’s eye.

The money in his pocket reminded him of the great weight of what that letter meant to him. He scoffed at himself, “Marquis, my ass,” revolted as the word passed his fanged teeth. With the promotion he’d received, he’d also been given extra powers and was promised his choice of animal companion within a fortnight. Promotions were extremely uncommon in both Heaven and Hell and Crowley, a lowly demon to start with, knew that this was Gabriel’s guilty conscience acting very boldly through Beelzebub. 

He recalled all the meetings he’d forever be pardoned from, but was still allowed to acknowledge and continued on in his trek. Aziraphale never got such polite treatment from his legion of angelic bosses, and for that Crowley was vengeful. He’d soon afterward signed a contract with Beelzebub and Gabriel as witnesses where his power would forevermore be divided equally between his vessel and his angel’s, given that he remained a member of the demons of Hell. This allowed Aziraphale his miracles back and left him feeling much more energetic on a day-to-day basis. It was the only relief he’d been given by Gabriel in a millennia. 

Crowley’s feet stopped at the threshold of his destination. He swallowed a few times, wavering on his feet about what he was about to do. Aziraphale’s only keepsake from Heaven was that gaudy pinkie-ring he insisted on getting polished annually. It annoyed Crowley to no end before the Apocalypse, but now it simply burdened him. He reminded himself of what it would mean to his angel, and this gave him the strength to step into the jewelry store.

-

“Ah, Mr. Crowley, it is good to see you again. Your purchase is ready,” the jolly man at the counter spoke with a smile that brightened significantly when the demon threw wads of crisp cash onto the counter. “I have another request. Something a little simpler.” A slight blush grew to his cheekbones that he tried to hide from the store’s workers. (They all theorized about this strange dark man who always wore sunglasses and Italian suits and what man could possibly be lucky enough to be proposed to with such an elaborate, well-thought-out ring selection?) 

Crowley produced a slightly musty bag out of his breast-pocket and carefully placed it on the counter. The worker, Mr. Jenkins, promptly asked for permission to open the fading leather sack and was allowed it tersely by the curious buyer. The other nosy worker, Miss Ruby, came over when she witnessed what had been removed from the antique bag. 

“Wherever did you find such a beautifully preserved ring like this?”

“Whatever is it made of?”

“How old is it?”

“Why didn’t you show us before?”

Crowley coughed in his throat, rolling his eyes at the people before him that were so dedicated to their niche occupation that they didn’t realize the complexity of the situation. “Look, this is a very old ring. More than antique. It’s made of a handful of materials-”

“What are they?” Ruby eagerly interrupted. Realizing that he had an enraptured audience he could testrun his soliloquy on, Crowley jumped straight in.

“It is shaped from the finest marble from the wall present at our first meeting. It has a detailing of pearl, straight from the Mediterranean Sea, crafted by Roman professionals. In its core is a fine detailing of a green, glowing meteor that was salvaged from the Soviet Union during their Space Race. There is a strip of wood from our first boat ride together. Signature silver from the most infamous medieval blacksmith lines the outside. And the purest most heavenly gold at its center. This ring has survived wars, bodies, and beliefs.”

Crowley saw Mr. Jenkins nearly drooling over the priceless item in his hand and thought Ruby would swoon. “Where is my other ring?” he asked anxiously. Knocked out of his reverie by the call of a good, paying customer, Mr. Jenkins brought out the other specially requested piece, presented in a dark blue velvet box. Crowley opened it with shaking hands and examined the genuinity of it. “Is it to your liking, Mr. Crowley?” the jewelry consultant hesitantly asked. Crowley swallowed hollow tears and nodded once to signify his answer.

“Now, with the other ring, I need the gold replaced with what I have in my hand. It should be no hard feat, but I need it by the end of this week.”

“Is that when you’re going to propose?” Ruby breathlessly asked, eyes finally turning from the wondrous ring laying dormant on the counter. It was emitting such an energy as no human had been able to experience in such proximity. 

Crowley swallowed hard and shrugged. “I haven’t quite figured out the words I’m going to say yet. I’m so bad with my...with my words. I don’t want him to think me as stupid.” Ruby patted his arm in a friendly manner and encouraged him in her bubbly voice.

“We can have it done by Thursday, will that do, Anthony?” Mr. Jenkins finally spoke. Crowley nodded, declaring, “I will be only using you for all my jewelry needs and will refer anyone who needs anything you directly to you.” His voice darkened immediately and the room grew very stuffy indeed, “But if anyone, anyone, findsss out about what hasss transspired here today, I hope you undersstand what your fate will be.” Ruby and Jenkins gulped and Crowley grabbed up the velvet box and left the money and gold in his jittery wake.


	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale started getting worried the longer Crowley took to return. They had a two hour rule they both desperately hung onto - even though Aziraphale almost never left the confines of the bookshop. As the clock chimed the last fifteen minutes of the silent timer, Aziraphale jumped up, pushed down soft tears and reached to his bedside table for his book hiding secrets from his partner.

They had another unspoken rule, developed through the months of them living in the same bookshop together but compounded by the centuries of keeping the other out of the loop, that their respective bedside tables were safe spaces where secrets could be held. Aziraphale kept books on his, all containing embarrassing tidbits or scary knowledge, and nothing else but an antique lamp that never turned off. Crowley’s table was sparse, holding only a stack of opened and unopened letters from Hell and his collection of sunglasses from over the centuries. Both of them respected the others’ space, for better or for worse. 

At this moment, Aziraphale reached for his _Gardening in the Finest_ and turned to his innovative false page. He spread out the listings in front of him, sadly smiling at the little comments he had made in the margins with his quill pen. 

“A cottage in Ireland,” he whispered as he caressed the fading paper between his fingers. “Or a beach house in Florida?” a mischievous smile appeared at memories of his and Crowley’s only interaction with Florida where they’d been mistaken for a demon and angel, but in the exact opposite way. “Maybe a Greek island…” 

“Iceland is wonderful this time of year…

“India is hot, but their food is better than anything really…”

“There’s always Canada…”

“Crowley is still hung up on Alpha Centauri but the real estate is so poor there…”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes together, still completely undecided on the destination. Little did he know that he began drifting off to sleep just a few minutes after the two hour time limit expired. 

Crowley cautiously stepped into the bedroom and smiled quite nicely - or all-together-not-bad-nor-nice - at his angel that was currently napping haphazardly in the middle of the bed. Aziraphale had a bad habit of going to sleep with nothing on - as an angel who hadn’t previously slept, he assumed that that was how it was since Adam and Eve were his most reliable references, and only by coaxing by Crowley did he put boxers on at night - and the angel always made fun of Crowley’s forty identical black silk button-up pyjamas that he insisted were all radically different. But as his demon watched him, Aziraphale had a pair of tartan pyjama pants on and one of Crowley’s oversized band t-shirts that was quite snug on his round frame. He was drooling over something that he’d obviously fallen asleep looking at. 

Crowley treaded lightly towards his partner and picked up the nearest article he’d been reading. His heart stopped and tears filled his eyes as he glanced at the title and examined the picture. He plopped himself down on the bed, throwing his sunglasses across the room dramatically. Tear drops covered the yellowed page in his hand and he simply couldn’t restrain himself any further. Aziraphale was awake, and quite embarrassed, at this point.

Realizing his demon was upset, he wrapped him into a warm embrace, rubbing at the hair that dropped to his shoulders. “The cottage in South Downs then it is,” the angel whispered into Crowley’s hair. Sneering at being caught in such a vulnerable position over something so trivial, Crowley miracled himself better and grabbed Aziraphale to him instead, reclining them onto the bed. 

“I’m buying us a more comfortable bed then, angel,” he huskily murmured into his neck. “That’s all well, my dear boy. I just thought that this bookshop was a bit of a dark reminder. Leave it all in the past. Go into retirement. All that.” Crowley tensed, just enough for Aziraphale to feel. “About retirement…” 

-

  


“But Master! He is a lowly demon, a despicable display of what we stand for!” 

“Hush, Prince. I do not appreciate you going against my orders. Do as I have instructed. Now, go,” Satan sat back into his throne, with the same resigned face he had had the time to grow into. Beelzebub muttered as they stomped out, scattering their flies behind them viciously.

-

  


Michael watched Gabriel retreat from the throne room with a nauseous look on his face. She assumed there was a first for everything and started to move on with her business. Gabriel stopped her, growling orders slightly at her, “There will be an angelic promotion forthcoming. Straight from Her Lips. A new Archangel will be joining us.” Michael understood suddenly why Gabriel looked so sick to his stomach and began to feel the same for herself. 

-

  


The longer Crowley stayed confined to the bookshop, the more frequent the nightmares were. He was forever haunted by the fires engulfing his poor angel and his bookshop, but this was infinitely better than being surrounded once more by his flat-shaped prison. Aziraphale understood this and immediately worked to getting the cottage in his possession. 

One lazy morning, Aziraphale was meticulously filing the taxes and working out the legalities of buying the cottage in exchange for the flat and the bookshop. Most of the books had been miraculously packed up, just waiting for the snap that would send them to their new homes. Crowley was lounging quite snake-like on Aziraphale’s worn-in couch and he mused, “I feel bad that you won’t let me pay for the cottage.”

“But, my dear, you are providing the furniture,” Aziraphale beamed at his demon, thrilled that the latter wasn’t wearing his protective sunglasses. “Anyway, think of it as an anniversary present.”

“Anniversary present?” Crowley sat up with great difficulty, his bones creaking as they regained humanoid status. Aziraphale nodded, a slight puzzled line forming between his eyebrows. “It’s been nearly four thousand years since the Arrangement. Fifty years is gold and sixty is diamonds but that doesn’t quite align with our timeline, does it dear?” Crowley was still sputtering, searching for a meaning behind what Aziraphale was talking about. 

“Are you talking about wedding anniversary gifts?” he finally asked, his voice getting slightly higher with each word. Aziraphale finally abandoned his ages-old computer and meticulously written notebook to look his demon in the eye. “Well, I suppose so. I’d always assumed about some of the vagueness of our Arrangement...I’m terribly sorry if I was too presumptuous about what I meant to you…”

At this point the angel was getting up and rushing away from the room, desperate to be alone when he would inevitably fall apart over betrayal and humiliation. Crowley was left with his mouth agape as he watched his Adversary run away from him for what felt like the hundredth time. “Aziraphale, angel, please, hear me out...this is one big misunderstanding. I’m just so dumb…” he murmured as he refrained from fully punching the empty bookshelf in his way.

“Zira please…” he came into the back storeroom and grabbed Aziraphale in his arms from behind. “All this time...you thought we were just cancelling each other out?” the soft angel whispered. Crowley, at a loss for words, shushed his companion. Silence filled the storeroom as Aziraphale calmed down enough to confidently grab Crowley’s now-wrinkled red silk shirt, with only a tinge of anger behind it. 

“I thought that the Arrangement was...was us acknowledging that we were going to be friends...and beyond. Beyond what Heaven and Hell would allow. And you always, you always seemed to act the same. Always saving me, buying me lunch, being...being nice,” he finally frustratedly explained. Crowley rocked his angel in his arms, holding back his own raw emotions. “Angel, I thought the Arrangement was my only chance to be able to see you again. I thought it was me tempting you to do something you knew you weren’t supposed to and...I thought I was just to suffer under the idea that you could never...never see me as more than a demon.”

The silence was near-deafening. “Is it different?” Aziraphale timidly questioned. Crowley grabbed the angel’s face tenderly in his hands. “Is what different?” 

“Is it different than it was for you in Heaven?” Crowley’s soft gaze broke into pieces as he realized the true question his beloved was asking of him. “Oh, angel...You were my other half in Heaven. I was totally transfixed by you. And when you forgot me...I thought it was for the best. But little did I know that the angel I ended up next to in Eden would be the one that I...that I had lost so recently before. And I longed to see you again, but resigned myself that I wouldn’t. And then I did.”

He wiped away a stray tear from Aziraphale’s plump cheek, adjusting his vintage reading glasses back into place. “You never regained your memories. And I never imagined you would ever feel as you did Before...Before I Fell…” Crowley turned away, attempting to compose himself. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the angel from Before as he turned away. Flowing red curls falling down towards his back, billowing in the Heavenly wind, vivid golden eyes filled with the entirety of Presence, whatever that was, a strong leader’s jaw, a rebel’s cheekbones, and an overwhelming sense of love emanating off of the angel. 

“I’ve struggled within myself...for centuries. In that church, after your nap, there was no more denying it. Crowley, dear, you know I always have and always will…” Both Aziraphale and Crowley were so hesitant to voice the words that had been unspoken for all these centuries during the Arrangement, all these years prepping for Armeggedon, all these years alone together with just each other. 

“Angel, please,” Crowley pleaded as Aziraphale placed a soft hand on the demon’s flushed cheeks, sending a soft shiver through the demon because of his cold ring. That made Crowley’s brain jump into action. Before Aziraphale could open his mouth again, Crowley was down on one knee, grabbing the bag out of his pocket and stumbling with his words.

“This must seem really, really late all things considered. But angel, I’ve been waiting since Eden to do this, to say this. To mess this up,” he nervously chuckled. He tried to hide his eyes but Aziraphale pulled his chin up towards the sky as Crowley said the next words. “I love you, angel, and I know I’m not supposed to. I always have, so I guess this is a bit of a hoopra for nothing. But...here. I’ve been planning this moment for a long time and I hope it...I hope you like it.” He drastically threw the leather bag at his partner and Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, begging him to stand up. 

“A nice, right proper proposal from a nice, right proper demon. Now, finish the job…” Aziraphale smugly spoke as Crowley’s shaky hands reached for the delicate ring. “I’ll tell you what I told the jewelry store workers...well that’s not very romantic is it. Anyway,” Crowley cautiously put the ring on Aziraphale’s proper finger as he explained each part of the exquisite piece of jewelry. “And...on the inside...it says...you know…”

“To my angel,” Aziraphale happily declared. “I feel quite awkward though Crowley. I did not think that you revelled in such ceremonies such as wedding rings.”

“Since you thought we were already married I guess the fault is all mine,” the demon muttered more cheerfully than he had originally planned. Aziraphale pulled at his demon’s waist, drawing them together in the largely empty space. Crowley was much taller, so Aziraphale got onto his tiptoes and pulled his demon’s face down so that he could place a proper marital kiss to his lips. When they withdrew from each other, Aziraphale had a slightly sly, but thoughtful expression on his face. “Since I don’t have your wedding ring right now, and I don’t want anyone thinking we’re married to anyone but each other, here,” he slipped his Heavenly ring off his own finger and miracled it onto Crowley’s. It burned slightly at the contact, but a kiss from Aziraphale soon stopped that. 

“Well, angel, now that we understand where we stand, you best be expecting many more gifts to come,” Crowley spoke as his crooked nose nuzzled his angels curly white halo. “And you best be expecting an actual wedding, my love.” Crowley nearly choked at the new nickname, but instead nodded obediently as he held his precious husband - what a nice ring that had to it.


	10. Chapter 10

“Gabe, answer your goddamn phone!” Before Beelzebub could angrily send flies through the receiver, the Archangel appeared in the middle of their shared American apartment. 

“I have to create a ceremony to promote Aziraphale to Archangel.”

“I have to make Crowley a Prince.”

“Well, if we didn’t already have enough to do. Let’z put that azide for now. How are the partnerzhipzz you checked in on?” Beelzebub anxiously asked, looking to Gabriel for some ray of hope amidst this egregiousness. “Every angel and demon pair I talked to was warming up quite well to each other. Reports show that the first few weeks were quite risky, but everyone made it out safely. Our only problem seems to be Dagon and Uriel, but not in the way you would think. They’re teaming up against their neighboring demons and angels, threatening them with all sorts of smiting and whatnot.”

Beelzebub nodded along to this status report, having heard some of it muttered by their partner late at night when sitting at his desk going over reports. “Just the same situation on my end. The next two steps of the Collaboration are ready to be implemented as according to plan on my end. I believe they should occur simultaneously. What are your thoughtz?”

Gabriel reclined back into the couch, throwing his arm around their shoulders before stating, “I agree. We’ll assign each functional current partnership to a new one, allowing us to be able to do our own work, as well as these stupid promotions, and be able to get this over as soon as possible. I’ll be more than ready to get back to Heaven and distance myself from these crummy humans.”

Beelzebub kicked their feet up on the ottoman in agreement. And with a snap of their fingers, the second and third stages of the Collaboration began unfolding and the couple’s eyes began drooping into sleep.

-

  
  


South Downs was a perfect environment for semi-retirement for two celestial beings. The beach was easily accessible - even if it was almost always too cold for Crowley’s blood to stand - and the cottage offered a large space for gardening - that Aziraphale was usually barred from messing with. The angel was tasked with renovating the exterior and the infrastructure of their new home while the demon set out to interior decorating and landscaping. 

A four poster bed with dark gray bedding and a canopy draping of white and black filled the larger-than-life master bedroom. The bathroom was sleek and accessible, with a bath large enough to fit two winged human-shaped-creatures together, and it had white marble appliances, glittering in the sunlight that seeped in from the high window, accented by the black countertops and accessories that Crowley had insisted on. Gray, white, and black tartan towels were Aziraphale’s response to this. 

The kitchen was extraordinarily high-end, detailed in contrasting light and deep grays with trinkets of all colors placed gently by the angel. Their cupboards and fridge were always overfilled with their favorite delicacies (and junk food) from centuries over. The living room, however, was the most hodge-podge yet homey of spaces. It had a large black leather couch (that reclined beautifully, thank you very much) connected to a 50s-style light blue loveseat that already looked lived in, complete with mismatched pillows and blankets. There was an American-made rocking chair in the corner (no, Aziraphale, I didn’t steal Warlock’s nursery chair, but if I did it would be a very evil thing to do!) across from Aziraphale’s recliner from the bookshop, the only piece of furniture Crowley had kept for their new home.

The rug that filled the floor was the softest possible, imported from Egypt directly, and agreed upon by both Crowley and Aziraphale. There were plenty of lamps, books, and wine glasses already spread on every surface in the room. The glass-topped coffee table was accented with ducks on the legs (that is quite subtle of you, my dear boy) and the lamp tables were mainly Aziraphale’s choices, despite Crowley’s insistence that they were his own. 

The only room that puzzled the both of them was the guest room. They had not slept in separate beds in nearly a decade, and on the rare occasion that they did, Crowley always found himself on the couch, or in a tree, or in the Bentley. They simply put a simple bed, extra furniture, and pieces of memorabilia and storage in there before locking it up behind them, deciding to deal with that another day.

All-together, things were going swimmingly. Nothing seemed to have changed too dramatically, Aziraphale read his books, Crowley napped in his lap, life was swell. The months and years passed in this manner. Aziraphale would drag a shivering, sleepy Crowley to a farmer’s market where, just before it closed, the demon would buy a sentimental gift for his angel. Crowley would tend to the garden for hours on end while Aziraphale baked endless pastries and brewed countless cups of tea. They helped each other heal as they always had, but still enjoyed each others’ company without work to get in the way. 

Aziraphale was anxiously twiddling at his sturdy pine desk, glancing every so often at the window that overlooked the garden. Crowley was screaming at the plants in between soft glances at the ducks swimming in the nearby pond. The angel was at the point of biting his lip when suddenly, Crowley popped up, leaning his head onto the former’s chaotic desk. “What’s troublin’ you, angel?”

After a long sigh and ample dramatic pause, Aziraphale said, “Well, I wanted to give you a huge wedding, but...you see. Who would we even invite?” A small smile hit the demon’s face as he grabbed his angel’s hand, leading him out to the pond, then up to the hill, then in the meadow where they eventually watched the sunset. Nothing made Crowley more miserable than seeing Aziraphale cry and he hoped to see it less and less within their retirement.

However, drinks after nine was a tradition they simply could not break, for better or for worse. This led to Aziraphale untying his bowtie and unbuttoning his top button, leaving Crowley a sputtering mess for longer than necessary (old habits die hard after all), and eventually, the booze left them more empty than energetic. 

“My love, we never should have taken our human companions for granted.” Crowley groaned, slithering himself onto his angel’s lap, purring lightly (if that were even possible for demon-shaped beings) before pursing his lips: “This is about the wedding isn’t it?” Aziraphale relaxed a bit into his partner and Crowley messily grabbed his free hand. “We don’t have to have a wedding. We’re immortal after all. And hey-”

“Hey look,” he tenderly grabbed Aziraphale’s face, sweeping a stray curl off his cheekbone, “We can only hold humans so dear. We love them as humanity, we do. But we cannot cry for every Adam and Eve that passes us by…” The angel, defeated, nodded and leaned his head back, pulling Crowley up towards him. “Either way, Zira,” the angel’s nose scrunched up nastily at the nickname, “What would we even wear?” Not finding him funny in the slightest, Aziraphale shoved the demon off of his lap, resulting in a hard  _ thud _ against the wooden floors. 

Smiling like an idiot, Crowley shrugged. “I’m just saying that I wouldn’t be able to decide between a dress and a tux, because I look like  _ Heaven _ and  _ Hell _ in BOTH!” A silence fell over the room. Crowley took this quiet to mean that it was time to sober up and lead his hesitant, worried angel to bed. He began grabbing at Aziraphale’s bowtie that was barely hanging on to his collar when Aziraphale cocked his head strangely up at Crowley.

“Heaven and Hell.” 

“Yeah, what about them?” 

Crowley’s hands were trying to work around the still-drunk, quite-wiggly angel in front of him, eventually giving up when Aziraphale stood up slowly, eyes glazed over to fit his Bad Idea Face. “We should have a wedding. It’s really only right, my boy.” Crowley sunk into the couch, covering his eyes from the light, miracling away a headache all the same. “And who best to be present than the people who would hate it the most!” his voice was near giddy. The demon cautiously watched Aziraphale’s hands come up higher and higher (he knew by now that the higher the hands went when he had on his Bad Idea Face, the more embarrassed Crowley would end up being). 

“Please sober up and come to bed angel,” Crowley attempted one more time. Still seeing in the gears in his companions head rolling, he sauntered off to their bedroom, miracling his third favorite set of silk pyjamas onto his body. 

Aziraphale met him in bed some time later, after every non-lamp light was already off and Crowley trying - and failing - to warm up the bed in expectation of his angel. Aziraphale climbed in, wearing just his underwear, and wasted no time in providing the warmth his cold-blooded serpent needed. As Crowley tiredly snuggled up against him, proud to be the little spoon tonight, Aziraphale whispered in his ear, “I’ve got it all figured out.”

“Isss that ssso?”

“We have to have a witness anyway, as per the custom and general knowledge. A human witness would be unreliable seeing as they would die much sooner than we did, defeating the true purpose of a witness. So we would need a celestial one.”

At this point, Aziraphale’s voice, despite its soothing timbre, was causing Crowley to further wake up from his stupor and turn around to face him. He just continued on, “So, it would make sense to invite our former bosses, dear. Gabriel and Beelzebub would not be able to say no given what they owe us. Why not go a step forward and exclaim to both our sides that we abandon them to form our own?” He finished quite excitedly, to the point that Crowley didn’t have the strength to argue. 

“You seem to have it all taken care of, angel. I’ll leave it all to you.” And with that he laid his head back down, entrusting his angel with his own nonsense, at least for the next few hours. “I already did. Their invitations have already been written and mailed out. I do hope that you don’t mind that I put my name first in the letter, seeing as it comes first alphabetically. You don’t think I should’ve put our human aliases in there, do you? If so, Anthony does come before Ezra…”

“Angel,” Crowley murmured against Aziraphale’s arm.

“Yes, dear?”

“Shut up and rock me to sleep.”

  
  


-

  
  


Against all odds, it seemed that the Infernal Delivery and the Celestial Post managed to run their invitations on time. However, the International Express was not as lucky. Heaven and Hell and all their respective occupants function primarily on the concept of miscommunication and misinformation - also known as chaos. War only wished she could claim their individual systems of relaying messages. Either way, it seemed that Gabriel and Beelzebub, and Crowley and Aziraphale would have benefited immensely by simply booking an appointment, even a lunch date, with each other to discuss all they needed to. However, that is not in the order of how anything would work, ever. 

Crowley, so comfortable he had half a heart to morph into his original skin, was, suffice to say, seething when he had to get up from his warm bed to answer the doorbell. He didn’t even know the cursed thing worked, but there he was, shivering and without socks, listening to it chime, still slightly miffed that Aziraphale was a deeper sleeper than he was. Without his sunglasses, he flung the door open, his forked tongue hanging venomously out of his fanged teeth. He looked near-angelic as his eyes locked with the delivery-man in front of him. 

“International Express. I have packages for a Mr. Anthony J. Crowley and a…Mr. A. Z. Fell,” a young man with kind eyes and wobbly knees offered with typical postman politeness. He reeked of the blood of a descendent, but Crowley disregarded this as he acknowledged how silly Aziraphale’s human name was. He called himself Ezra when absolutely necessary, but kept his initials as A. Z. Whenever he was unfortunate enough to get asked his name on the fly, he almost always responded with Aziraphale, making humans whisper strangely about the never-aging bookshop owner by the name of Aziraphale Zira Fell. 

“I need you both to sign, sir,” the young boy startled Crowley out of his thinking. He noticed that his name was Drake. “I’ve got a pet with your name. Never believe what it is.” The boy just blinked at him a few times, leading Crowley to growl and mumble something about, “Let me get him.” Fast enough to make Drake check his watch, but with enough motion to make him confused, Crowley showed back up with Aziraphale already beckoning the “poor boy” in for a “spot of tea” and a biscuit “if you’re feeling peckish, oh you must be very hungry on the road so often.”

“Sirs, I really just need you both to sign and take the boxes. It’s my only run today.” Aziraphale’s face fell a bit, but he miracled his black feather quill pen into his hand and scribbled his celestial name onto the page. It was an unspoken rule amongst the beings of Heaven and Hell that the International Express was not to be bothered with (do what you want with the Celestial Post and Internal Delivery because why not, of course) and that false signatures would lead you to consequences that had not been created yet. That was why Crowley’s white feather quill always smoked a bit when he signed for packages from Heaven or Hell. 

Drake was gone before they knew it, taking a moment to stand in front of their doorstep to gaze out at his hand-me-down delivery van. “It’s a duck!” he realized as he developed a slightly higher spring in his step. Crowley felt the same spurt of energy at the same time. 

Their eyes rested on the packages that sat on the breakfast table. Nerves of different types held onto them both. “I haven’t gotten a package from them since the 70s. It was a pet rock,” Crowley remarked, beginning to circle the two boxes like a predator with prey. The demon’s finger ached around his Heavenly engagement ring and he sheepishly waited for Aziraphale to respond first. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a proper package from Heaven.” That was all the angel had to remark.

Aziraphale sat down upright at the breakfast table, allowing Crowley to push his chair in for him before finding his seat directly across. “My dear, I sure hope nothing bad comes from this…” At those words, Crowley immediately jumped to miracle them open before Aziraphale got hurt. Nothing happened, but they still remained quite still, the wind slightly moving Aziraphale barely-tied dressing robe and Crowley’s hair falling softly over his tensed shoulders.

“I’ll look first, angel. Can’t have you getting hurt.” With that, Crowley reached for his and Aziraphale’s boxes and gazed into them. “Is everything alright dear?” The demon swallowed hard, for once extremely thankful that Aziraphale had no previous memory of Heaven. “Before...before you open yours,” he stuttered as he thrust the boxes onto the counter behind him, “Did I mention to you my slight...uhh vertical job shift?”

Aziraphale’s plump lips pursed decidedly disappointed and he shook his head curtly. “Well, before you get mad. Hold on, angel, hold on!” He snarled a little before spitting, “I was promoted to Marquis a few months...years...a little bit ago. Nothing changed except I got more mail and lots more money. No big deal. Just wanted you to know that before you got this package.” Aziraphale was not at all pleased at this reveal, but was much more excited to be able to open a present (Crowley so seldom had enough forethought to put them in boxes like Aziraphale preferred). 

Crowley redispersed the boxes and allowed his shaky hands to draw out the letter first, despite knowing that Aziraphale would be doing the exact opposite. “My, what a brilliant pocket watch!” he exclaimed, unable to contain himself. His demon always showered him with gifts, but with those gifts came the hard-earned jabs and comments that sometimes took away from the Christmas-like feel that brought a bit of redness to Aziraphale’s cheeks. He reached to show his dear boy when he witnessed the crestfallen, nauseous visage of his partner. 

“Angel, I’m going out,” he grumbled, hurling his chair away in a flurry. As the door slammed behind him and the Bentley soon revved, Aziraphale cautiously dipped his hands into the cold box from Hell. “My, what a gift indeed,” he marvelled at the crown in his hand. It had nearly no resemblance to the one signifying Pollution’s entrance, but was enchanting nonetheless. It was a very feminine, simple piece of jewelry made of copper. It was a full ring to sit upon one’s head - quite like a halo, Aziraphale had thought - but the pure uniqueness of the piece was that it contained 6 individual wing feathers within it, each within its own cases of silver, gold, or assorted jewel, depending on its color from white, black, or gray. 

Aziraphale, feeling the Hellish component of such a fine piece, maturely placed the crown back where it belonged. He relished in the opportunity to gaze at his beautiful piece before he read the letter that would certainly destroy the moment for him anyway. It was pure Heavenly Gold with sapphire and blue garnet inlays, handcrafted with what Aziraphale knew to be sharpened angel feathers to create a wonderful depiction of the Garden of Eden on the front face. The back was similarly crafted, but was instead a moving picture of the growth, death, and regrowth of an apple. Steadying his breath, Aziraphale calmly looked into the pocket watch. 

Inside was something only his celestial eyes could see. Not only did it keep the time of where he was in the world at the time, the alignment of the galaxy he was currently in, and the current placing of the universe, it also had a feature for detecting one particular not-quite-a-demon in a quite conspicuous manner. Looking and piddling further, he realized that it had the staple of Michael’s cunning edge technology in the form of a locket-type image and presentation of each of his and Crowley’s meetings throughout the millennia. 

As his eyes brimmed with tears and he miracled protective measures over his new treasure, Aziraphale acknowledged that he would indeed have to read the caveat that came with it. He brought out the letter that accompanied it, grimacing slightly at Gabriel’s obnoxious block lettered handwriting, and swallowed heavily. Before opening it to create such finality, the angel used his Holy pocket watch to see how far his demon had gotten, just to smile when he realized he was on the way back from wherever he’d been. He momentarily wondered if he should be as upset as Crowley was, but he could not find it within himself to be. If all they were allowed were these years together, blissfully together, then he would be contented that they had at least gotten that. 


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley seemed to have calmed down after his drive, or so Aziraphale thought. His head didn’t reach the doorframe like it usually did, but he also hadn’t bothered to scream at the plants stretching up the walkway. Aziraphale gripped the letter as he inquired after his partner, “Do you feel better?” Crowley slouched his way over to the couch, retrieving the wrinkled letter from his breast-pocket. As if on cue, Aziraphale stacked the boxes together, placing his letter on top, and walked the same path from the kitchen to the sleek leather couch where he dropped off the items and found his place beside Crowley. 

Their general demeanors resembled how so many passersby had witnessed them during their meetings in St. James Park, but there were strong contrasts even still. Crowley had his head thrown back against the couch with his arms outspread, back arched inward as if he didn’t even have a vertebrae. However, his frame was much smaller than it normally was when flailed across a surface. The heel of his snakeskin shoe grazed the floor like a child’s would. Aziraphale, meanwhile, still had proper British posture, a poster-child for Victorian era seating. The combination of his torture in Heaven and his heaven on earth with the demon had had its own due impact on the angel. His face was more hardened now than soft, his shoulders broader, his eyes alert. That didn’t stop him from still appearing compassionate with a tubby belly, but he looked more like a tall angelic soldier than he ever had. 

Realizing that Crowley was waiting for his angel to break the stillness in the air, Aziraphale opened his letter and began to read:

“Principality Aziraphale: This letter is being addressed to you in order to inform you of a promotion in your name. You have served in the second choir of Heaven dutifully for the entirety of your mission on Earth. In light of recent developments, The Heavenly Mother has declared that your duties be acknowledged properly. Her Words declare that you will be Archangel, to be coronated as listed below. Dutifully, Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon. Notarized by...Metatron.”

At the completion of the note, Crowley dramatically drew himself up just to slouch forward again. He looked so small and delicate next to his confident partner in crime beside him, closer than they typically would be. “After all they put us through...After everything, they think that this makes up for? Bah!” Crowley sputtered a bit and Aziraphale, due to years of practiced knowledge, allowed him to calm himself down. 

“Wretched Crowley: You’ve been despicable during your tenure on Earth. In Hell, you’ve been your own type of despicable. Our Master adamantly declares you be properly awarded for your efforts in the form of a title of the highest honor and the resources that accompany it. There will be a ceremony for this promotion to announce to the legions of Hell. Our Master also states that your work will change not a bit and you will not be given the same responsibilities of all other Princes. That is all: Beelzebub, Dagon, Ipos, Melchiresa.”

The plants outside stopped whispering and whimpering outside. The birds in the birdbath no longer bathed. Ducks stopped flapping their wings. Dust settled. Clouds emerged. Silence. 

“My dear, I do believe you’ve overacted a bit. Yours says you won’t have to do anything different. It’s just a change in title,” Aziraphale’s calm voice did wonders for Crowley, who was currently shrinking into himself. “Angel, it’s...it’s truly disgraceful isn’t it? I’m supposed to be the bad demon. Why is a bad demon getting promoted to Marquis and, _eugk_ , Prince?” In response, the angel pulled Crowley into his lap, relieved that he was allowed to. He reached slightly for the Hellish box to his left and motioned for Crowley to open it. 

He curled his delicate nimble fingers around the majestically created crown. His lips slightly parted as he gazed for a long time at each feather. Aziraphale felt satisfied that he’d convinced Crowley that there was a bright side to all this until Crowley threw his crown across the room where it hit the wall, outcast. “My dear boy!” Crowley tightly wrapped around his angel’s midsection, shaking slightly as he often did during emotional outbursts. The crown, despite all intents, was not broken in the slightest; if anything it shined brighter now that it had an audience. 

“Aziraphale…those are...my feathers.” 

  


-

“Babe, mail’s in,” Gabriel’s tired voice spoke over the apartment. Beelzebub was looking through a very vicious magazine - Teen Vogue with a fake front cover; they had to keep up appearances after all - when their head turned to their boyfriend. “Just check mine. I’m buzy.” Slightly shocked at this concept, Gabriel sat down at the counter and turned to both piles of mail. Ever since the Collaboration, the American apartment perfectly suited their tastes for living with each other without the embarrassment of dragging the other through Hell - or Heaven. Right now the interior decor looked like something straight out of a gag-worthy year of 80s style, something both entities could agree on. 

“Who do you know in South Downs, England?” Gabriel asked before his eyes enlarged and he nearly toppled from his place. “What the hell are you going on about back there?” Beelzebub called, worry seeping slightly into their voice. Gabriel, disheveled but now standing upright, tore open the lilac envelope and began reading. “Out loud, you idiot!” his partner screamed as they scaled over the gaudy geometric center table, standing on the blood orange bean-bag couch. 

The card was crisp white with silver and gold embellishments and accents. A doilied imitation of two specific pearly gates covered the inside that was covering in calligraphy writing, appropriately declaring something for the first time. Beelzebub looked over Gabriel’s shoulder as the angel cautiously opened the invitation. They both jumped when the card suddenly began spouting angelic harmonies played over Tchaikovsky’s “Bijou.” Inside was written in proper Victorian era etiquette - not that either party present was aware of that - but the language was obviously the near-dead one that they all originally been created to in. Only proper names existed presently in the memory of all those who spoke it. 

“Due to your incessant commitment to our lives, you are requested to attend the wedding of Aziraphale and Crowley.” Their names alone were written normally, and were the largest feature of the entire invitation. Below these words were the details of the wedding that Gabriel simply paroosed before turning towards Beelzebub. “Do we have to go?” Beelzebub, the proud creator of modern-day weddings and every dollar wasted, engagement broken, and marriage tainted that followed, shrugged. “There’s an RSVP card in here. They’re serving very delicious things…”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we, an Archangel and a Prince, attend this atrocious demonstration of pure disregard for-”

He didn’t finish because Beelzebub landed their lips on his. If it allowed him to continue receiving this treatment, he’d eat cases after cases of that wretched sushi Aziraphale was so often raving about in his reports. It would be an excuse to wear a new outfit, and Gabriel most certainly didn’t want to give that up. 

-

Melchiresa and Zarall had bonded over their discovery of video games. Originally, it had been a last-ditched attempt from the two of them in the middle of a crowded store when Melchiresa robotically threw a few things into her basket and walked straight out. It turned out that the video game she had chosen just happened to be the most competitive on the market and it didn’t take long for the couple to realize this. 

They sat for hours, days, in front of the television competing to the death in “Crossbows.” Melchiresa sat stick-straight on the couch, the only movement coming from her hands that had centuries of experience with the most minute, yet remarkable torture methods possible. Meanwhile, Zarall often wasn’t in his seat for very long before he was up, pacing, fidgeting, and waving his hands. He violently sputtered insults towards his fellow player, to the point that their neighbors often complained about their incessant gaming. However, anytime Melchiresa spoke, it haunted Zarall’s core because that meant she was about to go in for the most extreme attack possible and inevitably win. 

When the doorbell rang, Melchiresa had just murmured something that caused Zarall to anxiously jump up and come in closer to the screen. His panicked face was reflected in his inaccurate button-pressing that led to Melchiresa dutifully destroying him. Zarall had never beat her. As he threw a tantrum, the doorbell rang again and the demon graciously got up, long violet drapes swooping past her as she did so. Her pale elongated face never showed wear for all her time in front of a screen, but she didn’t often show her face to humans because of its extreme scarring and gut-wrenching indigo eyes that matched the water of Acheron. 

The deliveryman at the door didn’t seem afraid at her demonic appearance and simply handed her two identical envelopes. “Who is that?” Zarall finally calmed down enough to ask. He scampered over to the fridge that he immediately began raiding. His favorite past time on Earth was the variety of flavors they created. One of the many things they had gotten from human stores with little to no planning had been a blender. Zarall had already realized that he didn’t like chewing and had instead resorted to buying every liquid possible to try out. This number increased with the blender that he used to liquify everything. 

Melchiresa tossed the envelope addressed to him his way and floated to the kitchen table to open hers. Her eyes flicked to Zarall that had his envelope in one hand, the same hand as the blender lid was in, and he was balancing a banana and a jar of peanut butter in the other. Due to his incessant energy no matter what, his frame was thin, and if you weren’t looking for him, he’d be too short and ordinary to notice. His eyes were a rich hazel that stayed wide open and searching no matter where his gaze landed. He had a hamster’s nose and his voice was like an ant enjoying caramel. The only mark that he was even an angel were the four golden stripes around each of his forearms, symbolizing his place in the eighth order of angels.

Melchiresa turned her attention to the envelope and was delighted at what she saw. “A wedding ceremony. How avante-garde.” Zarall’s light eyebrows scrunched up under his poof of frizzy brown hair. “What does that mean?” Melchiresa began writing a note to herself about the date and location before answering his question. As he buzzed about the kitchen preparing to liquify the majority of its contents, the demon began, “Do you think we should match for it? Should I buy a human outfit or assemble my own? The dress code is obviously formal, wouldn’t you say?” 

Zarall’s mouth was agape for slightly longer than was appropriate and these questions finally prompted him to grab his own mail. He ripped it apart with his teeth and rapidly read the contents. “Aziraphale...why is that name so familiar?” Melchiresa began opening cabinets before finding her desired object and sitting back down. Zarall tried not to stare at her uncharacteristic water-sipping behavior and waited for her to answer. “Surely you angelic creatures still remember the most Heavenly of times?” 

Zarall finally finished his drink and sat down on the counter next to the sink, jiggling his leg as he did so. “Nah, that was all gone in the wash. I thought the same thing happened to you and your lot? Quite queer if you guys remembered and we didn’t.”

“Aziraphale was a Dominion. He fell in love with a high ranking Seraphim. One of them Fell. Can’t remember which one at the moment.” Melchiresa did remember, but had had tried not to think too hard about Before, but since Belial had been terminated, she’d become more and more bitter. Until now while she had Zarall distracting her. “Huh,” Zarall offered, dumbfounded. 

-

  


Jerry had never seen such ferocity between two people. When they’d first arrived, fully dressed in quite strange garb, he’d assumed that they had some sort of ages-long feud that they were finally going to work through. By the second meeting, he thought maybe they were having a very drawn-out lover’s quarrel that talking wouldn’t solve. However, now he knew that he had met two of the few select members of society that simply thrived off of the thrill of the hunt that humans had been deprived of due to evolution. 

Bast and Briathos went by Kitty and Bo, respectively. Jerry expected them at his studio every Monday and Thursday from one to four in the afternoon. For three straight hours with no stretching or warm-ups involved, these two went at each other in the ring. Never in his entire career of boxing had he seen two women deliver such damage to their partners, nor recover so quickly. Every punch was accurately and strategically placed, and more often than not blocked in the same fashion. 

More strange was the fact that they talked throughout the entire ordeal, crystal clear and seemingly in good jest. They insulted each other plenty, but more often than not Kitty would purr at her partner something about her physique, attitude, or some assorted inside joke of sorts. Kitty punched swiftly and staccatoed. Bo was more calculated if more slow. She was more prone to using her body weight to deliver a deep punch and then immediately retract and set to blocking her partner’s now-weakened punches. Bo didn’t say much, nor did she acknowledge her partner much at all. 

Jerry, after a few weeks of puzzling over these two women, he noticed something that he hadn’t before that solidified the reasoning behind all this: dog tags. Kitty and Bo were obviously in the military given their athleticism, stamina, and resilience. This also explained the odd names that obviously weren’t legal ones as well as Bo’s tattooed arm and metal prosthetic one. Usually Jerry didn’t let prosthetics like that in, but she brought her own equipment and paperwork clearing her to beat up anyone as she was. 

No one ever really won between the two of them, but Jerry always announced a winner every week at the end of the session anyway. After they finished, they didn’t even take a shower like other clients did. When they’d walk into Jerry’s office five minutes after finishing, they’d be dressed promptly and correctly - obviously a result of their military training - without a hair out of place or drop of sweat on their skin. Kitty would pay generously and leave Jerry some sort of hidden treat that Bo would pretend not to notice. 

On one particular day, Bo walked in before Kitty, wearing her muscle t-shirt and sweatpants, and threw a handful of cash on his desk. “We’re going to be missing the next few sessions. We have a family wedding to go to next week and we’re not quite certain how that is exactly going to go. Here’s payment for the next three weeks. We’ll keep in touch if possible.” Kitty bounded in with her pink leather skirt and see-through white blouse. Jerry was a man of certain tastes, but Kitty’s outfits were always quite distracting, no matter what style she appeared in. “Bye Jerry!” she excitedly bid as she grabbed Bo’s gloved hand. 

-

  


Purah and Ipos were influences on each other - good and bad. Ipos had dutifully taken Purah to several high-end human stores and dressed her up in the finest of the fine, which suited Purah almost too well. She now looked and walked like a runway model, which Ipos found great delight in. He reminisced over the days where they would glide over the golden streets of Heaven together, ignoring momentarily the rest of their responsibilities. 

Meanwhile, Purah had set up their living quarters to an exact organization point. She explained the duties and timetables and schedules and chores to Ipos endlessly. Because of this, when her memory lapsed, Ipos always knew what she was missing. Usually he teased her about it before he offered the information, but sometimes he spitefully omitted it from her. 

Purah had taught Ipos yoga, which they spent hours doing during the week. Ipos told her dirty jokes that she blushed at, but he would find her laughing to herself in her closet in the morning (and sometimes writing down the especially funny ones). Purah had them take endless personality tests, some of which were too accurate for Ipos’s taste. 

The hardest part of the whole thing was Ipos’s desire to tell his past-mate of their wonderful times together Before all while Purah was willingly falling deeply in love with the charismatic demon of her dreams. For millennia, Heavenly angels had spoken about how demons were incapable of love because they couldn’t ever be Forgiven. It was explained in weekly seminars during the early times that demons were stripped of all Goodness She had provided them while angels and all that was left were the traits of the Fallen - deceit, mischief, hatred, vanity, the like. 

Purah resigned herself to be in love with a demon that would never, could never, love her back. So she positively showered him in love and affection - quietly and sneakily of course - in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, She was wrong just this once. All the same, Ipos was very bilateral in his affections to his small angel. Sometimes he could be caught nearly leaning in to kiss her pursed lips. Other times he would coldly snub her in favor of his own domain within the apartment. 

They were both resigned with this behavior until one eventful evening. Purah was reading the newspaper (she liked to stay up-to-date on Heaven, even now that there were no Cherubim in Heaven at the moment) when Ipos ripped open a letter he hadn’t even glanced at. He was hoping it was junk mail that Benjamin and Daphne could chew on. It caught him off-guard with the heaviness of the words written. His heart stopped as he read the words and hoped that Purah wouldn’t read what he had. The letter fulfilled its destiny as Daphne and Benjamin struggled for ownership of their snack. 

Ipos felt satisfied in avoiding disaster until he noticed Purah begin her dutiful mail organization. He saw a letter similar to the one he just lost and instantly got up from the table, stumbling away. Purah used her letter opener on the beautifully printed lilac paper, shaking her head at her partner’s abnormal moods. Her eyes widened and she smiled brilliantly. “Ipos! Ipos come here!”

She raced to her room to retrieve a box she’d been keeping under her bed for what felt like years. “Ipos you silly goose, come here!” Daphne reported to Purah instead, getting a few pets on the head. That prompted Benjamin to jump in. “Would one of you go get that stupid demon? They’ll be a treat in it.” They both hustled away, drawing out a dismal character from his depressed corner. “Look, honey!” she shouted, throwing the invitation in his sour face, “If they can get married, there’s no reason that we-uh, I mean other angels and demons couldn’t be together!”

Noticing the lack of enthusiasm or response from the dashing individual standing before her, Purah frustratedly stood from her chair. She adjusted her skirt and blouse before undoing her hair - which she almost always kept in a bun during evening hours - and throwing Benjamin and Daphne a treat to get them to scatter. She forced Ipos to look at her by grabbing his cleft chin with her small hand. She immediately kissed him with a passion Ipos simply had not been expecting. After what felt like an eternity, Purah released the demon and he muttered something that sounded like, “I’ll send the RSVP.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Crowley, how come you only ever tell me the same stories of Heaven over and over...Crowley stop that, you know I’m ticklish!” The demon was rubbing his crooked nose against the angel’s neck and wiggling his fingers into his side when Aziraphale’s question finally registered. “Why don’t you remember Heaven, angel? Who’s to know anything?” He hoped that that was the end of it, but Aziraphale had been asking more and more questions about Before. It ached Crowley’s heart.

“But, my dear boy, you must’ve had more than a few good times in Heaven; you were a Seraphim after all,” Aziraphale wanted to know how all the pieces fit together. He wondered what made Beelzebub fall and who Crowley’s friends were and whether he knew them currently or not. He yearned to know what Heaven was like when compassion and kindness were prevalent. Crowley’s eyes pleaded with his angel to stop. “Crowley, what could’ve been so bad in Heaven that you won’t tell me?” 

Crowley snatched up his glasses and headed toward his Bentley. “Angel, when I thought I’d lost you that fateful day in the bookshop, nothing was worse. But I think you forget that every time I close my eyes I go over two events from Before: the Battle and my Fall. I’m sorry for not wanting to take away the bliss of what we have just for you to know about your bosses during their prime!”

As Crowley’s hand reached the doorbell, Aziraphale grabbed his spouse’s arm. “Listen here, I did not get tortured by those angels to have the same treatment from my husband! I only ask you these questions because I know the pain you’ve suffered. I want to help you, Crowley!” 

His eyes clouded behind his glasses, danger inching into the hallway where they now found themselves. “Aziraphale, I love you. I loved you in Heaven. I can’t imagine losing you...I can’t tell you what I was like in Heaven. You...I can’t risk you not loving me ever again.” And with that, he slammed the door behind him. Aziraphale was left alone and he did not know how long he would stay that way. 

-

_ “Janiel, have you ever been in love?” Jehoel was stubbornly avoiding his work, but insistent on annoying the only person around, much like a younger brother would do to his sister. Janiel, however, dutifully rolled her eyes on cue and looked down her nose at the crouched angel. _

_ “Of course. We are beings made purely of love.” She ended the statement with a nod, hoping that she’d provided an ample answer to prevent further inquiries. She had never been one for luck though. _

_ “That’s not true though. And you know it-look don’t argue. Everyone around here always says that we’re these ethereal beings of pure light and goodness, capable and desiring to love all around us. But you know it isn’t true just as well as I do.” _

_ Janiel sighed; she hated when his questions ended up dreadfully near to Almighty treason. She stubbornly refused to concede to his incessant doubt. “He loves us. You surely can’t question that.” _

_ “Nah, I suppose not. But, for example, I was talking to Michael the other day and...I think he’s depressed. I’m not sure why but he never smiles like you and I do. He does his job and then, uh, exists I suppose. And not much else. Don’t you think that’s weird?”  _

_ He had that face of intrigue, filled with pure child-like wonder that allowed all his comments to slide under the radar. Janiel understood why he had such a large, varied group that he hung around, despite what she wished for him. “I guess. Why don’t you talk to him about it then?” _

_ “I did. Didn’t go well. I suggested that he change the color of his dressings, or change up his hair, and the look he gave me in return was menacing.” Jehoel, despite himself, really enjoyed talking to Janiel. She always had an answer for him, even if it was a poor one. She didn’t dismiss or disregard him because of his goofy expressions and odd-ball behavior. She accepted him no matter what; most angels wouldn’t do that. _

_ “That’s so unlike him.” Janiel didn’t like talking poorly about her fellow Seraphim, but had herself been concerned about Michael. She briefly wondered if she should make a visit sometime. These thoughts were interrupted once more by Jehoel. _

_ “Yeah. And Gabriel, I mean, that guy is always smiling. He’s a close friend of mine, but he...he doesn’t trust any of us does he? I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t trust Him either.”  _

_ “Jehoel! You can’t just say stuff like that! He is Almighty and can punish you for such remarks.” At this point, Janiel had abandoned her work station; it was fruitless to attempt to do anything productive with Jehoel around. Deep down, she cared deeply for him and didn’t want to be the one to test what would happen if God punished one counterpart and not the other. She’d be very lonely, in spite of herself. _

_ “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Janie-” Jehoel joked while he rose to his feet. Their conversations almost always ended up in this manner, which somewhat spoiled the fun of starting them. _

_ “I told you not to call me that! You know how it irritates my Essence.” Janiel was red-faced and tried to steady her hands with the creation of something, anything. But, the Presence never worked properly for her when frustrated and instead blew up in her face. Jehoel stifled a giggle for her sake and offered her a hand in the creation, with an ease that irritated her further.  _

_ “Come on. You still haven’t properly answered my question.” _

_ Janiel was still sputtering about the whole encounter, eager to be rid of him as quickly as possible. “Just because you ask questions doesn’t mean you deserve answers, you pest.” _

_ “Come on, tell me. You have to know the feeling that I’m talking about. And if not, I’ll give you an example: Purah and Ariel were declared mates the other day. But you wouldn’t know because you never leave this splotch of cloud here behind the throne room.” _

_ “What...what does being mates mean?” At this point, Jehoel’s propositions were beginning to sound more credible, especially if someone as respectable as Ariel were doing this ‘falling in love’ bit. She took one glance at Jehoel and wondered what that meant for the rest of the Seraphim - Purah wasn’t of her mate’s rank.  _

_ “You know...It’s like...Remember when we first created stars and then the first one immediately blew up in our faces? The beauty of that exchange that was like a relationship - one between you and the star. That’s what being in love feels like. For a being of love that is.” _

_ There was a stillness as Jehoel got lost in the feeling he’d previously described. Janiel gazed strangely at the angel in front of her, wondering how they could be made one and the same, but be so very very different.  _

_ “You should stay out of Heavenly gossip,” she scoffed before turning to her work again. _

_ “You’re simply angry that you can relate to what I’m talking about.” _

_ As Janiel looked deeply into Jehoel’s eyes, she sighed internally, knowing all too well that he was right. _

  
  


_ - _

  
  


_ “Why was Lucifer hanging out with Esther? She’s not apart of his clique,” Aziraphale cautiously asked of his powerful angel.  _

_ “Why, darling, I don’t know. Don’t trouble yourself with it. I know he’s a friend of mine, but if I stay in my own business, his mistakes won’t become mine.” _

_ Aziraphale had a bad taste in his mouth, but continued braiding Jehoel’s silky hair. “I was going to ask Esther what it felt like to have a mate.” _

_ Jehoel’s shoulders tensed up against the soft fingers intertwined in his hair. “I didn’t know she had a mate. Why do you care though?” _

_ “She’s chief of love, dear boy, don’t you remember. I suppose not, since you’re so busy doing much more important things for Him. I don’t know why I asked. So many people have been declaring mates and whatnot. I wondered what all the fuss could possibly be for.” _

_ At that, Jehoel sat up against the angel that was previously holding him, and grabbed his soft hand that was now no longer occupied. “Sweet love of mine, I do hope if you have a mate it is none other than yours truly.” He carded his fingers in the brilliant curls that shaped his partner’s face, and pushed his face towards the other angel.  _

_ Aziraphale retracted immediately, noticeably shaken. “Just because you do not risk the repercussions of your rash actions, please do to remember that I am not the all-powerful angel you are. My punishments are much worse than yours are. This doesn’t feel right...” _

_ “But, Aziraphale, I...I am in love with you.” _

_ “What does that even mean, dear?” _

_ “I think you are my mate. I am in love with you. My whole being, the Presence itself, is filled with wholesomeness when I’m with you. And I merely wanted to show you that through a new form of physical affection.” _

_ “Well, you went too fast for me, Jehoel.” _

_ - _

  
  


_ “Gabriel, why is this messing up so poorly?!” Jehoel frustrated ruffled his feathers while he worked alongside his friends in an attempt to actually get something done. This was so rare that he nearly convinced himself that he didn’t remember.  _

_ “Probably because you aren’t trusting your powers. What has you so distracted these days?” Jehoel inwardly cursed Gabriel’s innate ability to pinpoint the exact emotions of the person he was talking to.  _

_ “I guess it’s all of these mate declarations. If we are all supposedly beings of love, then why don’t we all have a mate?” Jehoel hoped he wasn’t whining too bad because Gabriel usually clammed up when he started doing that. Instead he sighed and answered plainly, “It’s a big place and we have a lot of jobs to do all the time. I suppose it will all work out in time.” _

_ Feeling that Gabriel had given him an inch, he tried to take a few more,“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought of it either. I know you, Gabriel; we were created consecutively. You can’t tell me that not knowing what would be a very simple explanation for the workings of our...workplace and family space does not drive you up the wall.” _

_ The clamming up was starting to creep in: “Even if I did wonder, I wouldn’t be concerned about never finding a mate. He knows what He is doing. Either way, I’m the messenger and commander of all the choirs of angels. I have a lot to do. Especially when compared to you.” _

_ “Well, give Gabrielle some of the work to do. Cuts down on work for the both of you, collaborating.” Jehoel knew that that worked best for him. Gabriel turned abruptly towards him, snarling, “Is that what you do to Janiel? No wonder you’re always goofing around and have the time to ask questions.” _

_ “It’s not like my job is that hard,” Jehoel hated when people thought lesser of him and began defending himself, “Ever since that dastardly incident with atoms and molecules, she makes the stuff, I proofread it. What does Gabrielle even do? You’re much more powerful than her.” _

_ “Jehoel, you know that we are created as equals as two parts of a whole with our counterparts. Gabrielle has her own commandments. She...helps me with deliveries sometimes...and manages the legion of guardian angels,” he trailed off, trying to remember when the last time he’d even seen Gabrielle was.  _

_ “Gabriel, there’s nothing to guard right now. Gabrielle doesn’t do anything but run around with Nephelix and Esther. Give her some of your work. You could fly with me more.” _

_ “Just get to work, Jehoel.” _

_ - _

_ “Did you hear of Michael’s big change?” It had been a festive few hours with the boys hanging around the shady parts of Heaven. Despite Lucifer legion of unruly angels, he sought out the only other person there that was anywhere near his caliber: Jehoel. _

_ “No, no, what does that mean?”  _

_ “Well, we’re all commissioned a certain way or whatever, able to change certain aspects of this form if we want. Well, Michael got called to the throne room - I was on guard inside and just happened to hear this go down - and God changed his image. He’s feminine now.” Lucifer was joking, obviously, but there seemed to be some thought to the exposition he was provided the higher-ranking angel.  _

_ “Still Michael though right? All the rights bugs in all the wrong places?” Jehoel elbowed Lucifer’s side for emphasis. The contemplation in the latter’s eyes disappeared as he laughed along. “You know it. There’s rumor that that was a trial-run for Him. I think He’ll do the same thing to Himself eventually.” _

_ A few of the angels were fighting each other behind the Seraphim and Cherubim, something that only ever happened around the one and only Morningstar. Jehoel and Lucifer looked back slightly before returning to their companionship.  _

_ “Hey, Lucifer…have you ever been in love?” _

_ “What, with like, a mate? Nah, nah, I’ve got much more important things to do.” But Lucifer’s eyes clouded over as he chugged his drink very quickly. A stillness fell over them again. _

_ “So, are you in?” Lucifer’s face changed immediately, erupting into a maniacal grin that stretched beyond his outspread cup that was begging to connect with Jehoel’s. “What exactly does that entail?” was all Jehoel could ask. _

_ “The same stuff I’ve been talking about for awhile. When God hath made Himself into a New Image: that is the time to act and you know it. It’s coming soon, brother. I need you in all your power when that time comes.” _

_ “What are you doing though?” Jehoel did not like being associated with the worst of Lucifer’s tricks. He was a good buddy to hang around with and shoot the bull, but that didn’t equate to brotherhood in Jehoel’s mind.  _

_ “We’re going to go to the Throne Room and declare that our requests be heard. There should be equal treatment amongst us angels, for are we not created in the same image as our Creator, some with powers resembling his own? Now that these rumors of a new creation in Her image have emerged, time is of the essence. So are you in?” Jehoel was beginning to think that these rumors of a New Image of God were a little bit more than a rumor, possibly just a fact that Lucifer hadn’t bothered to verify. _

_ The gang of lower-leveled angels had stopped fighting and turned to their leader, smirking into their drinks about their inevitably success and God’s compliance. “Where’s Esther?” Lucifer’s face darkened at Jehoel’s observing question and turned to the other angels in the room instead. “You can show up if you decide to change your mind.” _

_ - _

  
  


_ God was not compliant, Aziraphale had said as much in not so many words. Jehoel was torn between himself these days. He’d tried to placate the love of his presence, but Aziraphale was still cold and skiddish. Lucifer was demanding and commanding the finicky angels as the Seraphim tried to focus on his work.  _

_ “Hey, Michael, Gabriel, let’s take a break, let’s head to the Square to chill out.” _

_ When the choir of Seraphim arrived to the Square that was overlooked by the Throne Room, they realized that they were already late to the festivities. “Jehoel, did you know they would be up to this?” _

_ Currently, Lucifer was delivering a fantastical speech about angels becoming equal and becoming true examples for the soon-to-be-formed humans. The angels were noisy and in a rebellious mood as the most powerful of them all watched them. Lucifer knocked on the Throne Room and was received with a booming omnipresent voice of God (not He nor Her, but the Presence of God itself). _

_ “ _ Your requests go against the very order of the Good Plan I have given to you all. Humans will be Children of God. Half of you are Spawn and the rest are Depictions. I will not grant your ridiculous requests under any circumstances. _ ” _

_ Something inside each angel began shifting, morphing, changing. Jehoel frantically began searching for Aziraphale, but he was not quick enough. Lucifer’s booming voice spoke over the entirety of Heaven in a manner they’d never heard before, “You will reap the revenge of the Morning Star. I have been entrusted by God to provide peace and love to all, but where is the same behavior from Them? The lower choir angels demand change and only I can give it to them. There’s a reason I was made the most beautiful and there’s a reason that I was made Cherubim, placed conveniently in God’s own Throne Room.  _

_ “Angels, you feel the change within yourself. The secret God has kept from us is that we have been created in His Image as soldiers, fighters, warriors. Only those that have rallied with me are on the right side of this war. Only you will be saved from the oppression of the Almighty! Come, brothers and sisters, prepare to fight for our rightful place in the setting made specifically for us, tended by us, loved by us. Prepare your weapons, no matter the sort! We will ride out when the sky no longer greets us!” _

  
  


_ - _

  
  


_ “Aziraphale! Aziraphale...please tell me they haven’t gotten to you first.” Amidst the Square, mates were frantically searching for each other, counterparts were devising strategies, and friends were consoling each other over the deepest of betrayals. Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael had been summoned to be commander, field-general, and healer, respectively. The rest of the Seraphim had given Jehoel a disgusted look before abandoning him.  _

_ “Aziraphale, where are you?!” His wings finally gave out and he collapsed against the now-cold ground. Someone bumped into him and he felt more alone than he ever had in Heaven. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m looking for...no I suppose I know exactly where he is.” _

_ “Esther,” Jehoel finally looked up, shielding his eyes from her innate beauty and light. Now, however, her face looked deformed and quite void of anything but darkness. “It’s Lucifer, isn’t it?” She nodded, tears filling her eyes. She fell to her knees and Jehoel began comforting her the best he could; Aziraphale would be much more cool-headed during this situation. “Esther, if you love him, you know that that at least is true. It will make everything else much simpler.” _

_ She wiped her face cautiously and looked deeply into her comforter’s eyes. His Presence shivered as her love-filled essence seeped itself into him. Her love was cold now, not as warm as it had been. It was then that Jehoel realized that, yes, love was wonderful and all he lived for, but that also meant that it was bitter, miserable, and soon-to-be war-torn.  _

_ She stood up carefully, helping her fellow angel do the same. She nodded once at him fully before turning away, presumably to join in the fight against God. However, just as her wings projected out, she yelped a horrible, guttural scream. Jehoel was caught between summoning Raphael and curious about what was happening, but it was over nearly as soon as it started. Her wings disintegrated from her form and a spot on the Square opened up, sucking her down through it. As it closed up, Jehoel got a whiff of the scent of ash.  _

_ “I have to find Aziraphale and fight for us.” _

_ - _

  
  


_ “FALL IN LINE SOLDIER!” Gabriel’s sweet smile had immediately been wiped off as he barked orders to the angels before him. He began with the lower angels that had remained to fight the good fight, and ended with the Seraphim. Janiel gripped Jehoel’s hand, thankful that he was there to fight beside her, given his power. However, Jehoel, despite being thankful that he had not yet reached the fate that Esther had, was still questioning everything behind this.  _

_ It was common knowledge that all the Seraphim had counterparts - Janiel and Jehoel, Michael and Mikaila, Gabriel and Gabrielle, Uriel and Ariel, Seraphiel and Sara - and a few Cherubim and Ophinim of high rank had the same. However, when looking down the line, Jehoel realized that the lower orders of angels didn’t. He didn’t see any guardian angels present, only one or two archangels, and a dozen principalities. He had spotted Aziraphale amongst the Dominions, but in the second choir, there were still such a small amount. It seemed that the only people who remained where the top choir. Lucifer and a handful of others were the only exceptions it seemed.  _

_ Lucifer, despite his immense power, was created without a counterpart. Jehoel pondered whether only angels created singularly could have mates. Maybe that was why his angel didn’t love him back. However, he didn’t have long to think before he and Janiel were given a group of angels to march into battle with. “Say, do you think God is going to watch this battle or just listen?” Jehoel asked her as they marched. Janiel looked as if she’d been slapped.  _

_ - _

  
  


_ The battle was long and laborious. Jehoel worried constantly about Aziraphale, but couldn’t leave his post often due to Janiel’s poor tactics and physical weakness. It raged on while the skies tumbled and cried out. Jehoel hated this fighting; it exhausted his Presence and damaged his mental state. He was most relieved when he saw a flash of treacherous lightning erupt in the sky.  _

_ Michael had been facing off against Lucifer while Raphael was enlisting help to begin moving wounded, when, suddenly, everything stopped. God spoke: “Enough! Lucifer, I’m overcome with your pride and vanity. Heaven will no longer accept you nor your fighters.” And with that, Lucifer, ready to decimate the less-powerful Michael, fell through a hole in Heaven, catching fire immediately. His angels followed the same fate, one by one.  _

_ Jehoel finally took one look at the individuals who had fought for this glorious free will and freedom Lucifer preached about, the same words Jehoel had thought about himself within the confines of his own mind. The miserable low-level angels had been impassioned by this battle and the promise of equality and power. The second choir of angels felt that their cause was righteous; God had no reason to force them to watch over new Creations meant to replace the angels. And Lucifer, whether he knew it or not, was implementing the Good Plan, finishing it up with a nice final touch.  _

_ Jehoel looked at his own battefield and realized he was not the only one who had asked questions. The ground quaked beneath their feet as the last angel Fell amongst Lucifer’s soldiers. The remaining angels shielded their eyes against a flash of bright light that fell dramatically from the throne room and scattered across the group, engulfing individuals in particular. Janiel whispered, “Sophia,” and only Jehoel understood what that meant. _

_ The Presence of God was made up of two parts; Sophia was one of them. She had created most of the angels and her favorite was Lucifer. However, she’d been getting stronger and louder the more Lucifer had rallied angels. Now, God was finally casting Sophia out as well. She took her most favorite high-ranking angels; every set of Seraphim was split up as she took nearly half of them.  _

_ Gabrielle hugged Gabriel one last time before she walked away and allowed Sophia to whisk her away into nothingness. Ariel had feline grin on her face, knowing that she was worth more now than she had ever been before. Mikaila, poor dear, held onto Michael for dear life before she was forcibly taken. The only sets remaining where Janiel and Jehoel and Sara and Seraphiel. Jehoel took one look at the most powerful Seraphim and his counterpart and knew that his theory was disproved; those two were mates. That meant that he and Aziraphale- _

_ Ignoring Janiel’s whines and complaints, Jehoel frantically searched for his one true love. He was being healed by Raphael near the flank of the previous formation. Jehoel fell to his side, tears filling his eyes as he gripped the Dominion’s limp hand. “Is he..Is he going to make it?” Raphael nodded solemnly. “Is Azriel…?” Jehoel slowly looked about the desolation that now was the Square of Heaven. Rather than be taken by Sophia, Raphael’s counterpart was laying out on the ground, wings disintegrated, symbolizing the death of an angel’s soul. Jehoel whispered, “I’m sorry Raphael.” _

_ “Don’t be. You’re lucky that yours isn’t as mine was.” They said no more as he fixed Aziraphale better than he had been before. As Raphael walked away, Jehoel noticed that one of his wings was badly damaged and in the state of disintegration. Instead of healing himself, Raphael reported to Michael and Gabriel the state of irreparable casualties and together they evaluated the extent of the damage done to their force. It was in front of his two best friends that Raphael finally gave out and crumpled to the ground. There was already so much mourning. _

_ Aziraphale hugged Jehoel closely, whispering blessings into the fellow angel’s ears. “And to think I had thought you’d been one of them this whole time.” Jehoel hugged him tighter before releasing quickly. He hissed at the painful burning he was now experiencing in the hand that remained on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He removed it, but felt something curl up from inside him, turning over and suddenly awakening. This was not a shift to being a soldier; this was an answer to his question. _

_ “Aziraphale, I’m in love with you. I’ll carry it with me through my Presence until I am not any longer. Each star I have created has been made in your name. Each molecule crafted in the same love that I felt when I first saw your face-” Then he stopped being able to see Heaven. _

_ “Gabriel...Gabriel!” the Dominion shouted for help with the angel. As Aziraphale dragged Jehoel up to the Throne Room where the Seraphim had gathered, the latter felt he was burning at his very core. Just before they entered the threshold, Jehoel stopped him, huffing a few frantic breaths. “Just once, darling. We know that this is the end. Please.” And they embraced as lovers do, and held each other, before releasing in a kiss that made Jehoel crumple to the floor.  _

-

  
  


“Angel, can you open the door? I left my keys in my other pants and don’t feel like miracling it.” 

Aziraphale’s face lit up from behind his book when he heard his demon’s voice. It had been months - some of the loneliest months imaginable, for both of them. That didn’t stop the angel from hesitating in his armchair. 

“I’m sorry, angel. I messed up something bad that night. If you don’t want me anymore, I’ll go away forever, and think of you for eternity.” Crowley’s voice grew lower and softer as he whispered through the wooden door that hung a Christmas wreath he used to hate but now endured. 

The door opened and Aziraphale locked eyes with a transformed Crowley. Not only was she insanely grimy with fashions from decades ago, her black clothes had obviously started as white. Her sunglasses where taped up at the middle and still didn’t hide the large dark circles beneath her eyes. Her breath smelt of vodka and toothpaste and she wasn’t even bothering to wear shoes. Her snake tattoo had spread down her neck, moving of its own volition occasionally. 

“Crowley, you look awful.” 

“Do you really mean it?” she flung her sunglasses off and stepped one toe across the threshold. Aziraphale backed up and she walked in completely, closing the door behind her. That was when Aziraphale realized she was wearing none other than the crown from Hell. 

“Aziraphale, if you convince me to stay, if you convince me that nothing will change between us, convince me that you won’t fall in love with the person I was instead of who I am now, then and only then will I tell you the rest of my stories from Heaven.” Her ponytail was ragged and drooping, her lipstick smudged and unlined, and she was now taller than Aziraphale, but he grabbed her to him anyway. And they kissed like lovers should. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Hey, Gabriel, did you get your memory back in full from Heaven?” Beelzebub was coordinating with fellow princes on how to get the Collaboration ready for a Coronation. Gabriel, meanwhile, was filing paperwork after paperwork to account for a lapse in Uriel’s judgement when she transformed into her true form during a bar fight on earth. His pen paused slightly above the paper. He slowly removed his rectangular frames from his face and set them down softly.

“What’s going on Beelzebub?”

“Just answer the bloody question,” they snarled, turning their head away. Gabriel wanted to grab them up into a hug, but restrained himself for politeness-sake. “No, not everything. I remember Jehoel, that’s about all. I don’t even...can’t even remember the Battle or…”

“I remember that brilliant, stupid smile you always wore, you know that?” Gabriel stiffened at Beelzebub invitation at sentimental conversation. “I definitely don’t remember you, though, Beelz.” Grabbing his hand more aggressively than intended, Beelzebub sighed and was content to let the conversation die. Gabriel whispered, “Who were you?”

“I’m going to tell you az long az you don’t make a fuzz about being a ‘different perzon’ or whatever. My name was Nephelix; I was essentially a bouncer for the Throne Room.” They gasped slightly when his thumb threaded over their knuckles as they held hands. “Tell me everything, Beelz. Maybe it’ll jog my memory. It took seeing Jehoel-er, Crowley, more than once to do that.”

And, in the first sight of intimacy in this couple’s relationship, Beelzebub, Prince of the Flies, relayed their life as the Ophinum Nephelix and every occasion she saw Gabriel enter the Throne Room. Gabriel didn’t remember her still, or much of anything, really, but he enjoyed her vivid retelling. 

-

“Angels, we haven’t really talked wardrobe lately,” Crowley’s raspy feminine voice spoke across the produce section of the supermarket. Aziraphale, finally stepping out of his comfort zone of the cottage and into his new comfort zone - food - called back absentmindedly, “I don’t need you to pick out my wardrobe, dear.” An onlooker had a decidedly confused expression on her face as she watched their conversation transpire.

Crowley was wearing skin-tight black jeans hanging onto her hip bones for dear life, a white cut-out muscle t-shirt with a skull on it, revealing a lacy piece of lingerie underneath, all matched with bright red snake-skin stilettos. Meanwhile, the onlooker puzzled over who this young woman just called angel and saw what appeared to be a ripe librarian or wizened English professor. He was endowed with khakis and a button-up shirt, but his khakis looked straight out of the 1950s and his checked shirt was covered with a tattered blue sweater vest. All this was not outweighed by the combination of his freshly-polished lace-up brown boots that looked like they came straight off a soldier’s feet and his antique looking glasses that he gazed at produce prices through. 

“What a pair,” the onlooker murmured. She soon realized that they were coming through her line to check out and had to maintain an appropriately polite face the entirety of the ordeal. 

“What I meant, angel, is for the wedding. I have some ideas, but I wanted them approved by you first,” the woman spoke, glaring at their purchases even through her darkened sunglasses. She was wearing gaudy piercings and had an even more distracting tattoo on her face and neck. The onlooker thought that it truly was a waste of a good face and good genes - I mean, that hair alone was to die for! Meanwhile, the angel character, talking in such a sophisticated manner, barely offered any substance of reply. “If you handle the flowers and the wardrobe, I think it’ll do for me to handle the rest, my dear girl.” 

The woman positively beamed at this while the onlooker starting doing mathematic equations to figure out the age-difference between these two queer individuals. Surely the woman was in her twenties...but, she had wrinkles like she was middle-aged, and a vibe to match it. And the professor-type had to be well-over middle-aged, but...surely such an aging intellectual’s coat sleeves wouldn’t bulge under his bicep. She gave up by the time they traisped out of the store, the woman carrying everything _and_ holding the man’s hand. What a world.

-

“So, girls I was thinking that for the wedding, I’d hand sew both of our outfits. I mean, he wears the same suit nearly every day and I’m so temperamental with style that I wouldn’t want to have to burn my wedding pictures by next year,” Crowley’s comments got plenty of laughs from the hairdressers in the salon. Miraculously, he was the only customer who was being pampered and preened by the finest of fine and this allowed the rest of the salon to be sounding boards for wedding ideas.

“I think that’s very thoughtful,” someone offered.

“Do you know how to design and sew?” another said. 

Crowley shrugged underneath his cape before being led to the shampoo station. “What’s your idea, then?” his salonist offered as she threaded her fingers through his voluminous hair. Every appointment with him was a treat just to be able to work with such fine hair. Crowley then dramatically waited until he was getting his hair dried by towel.

“I was thinking, I recreate the outfits we were wearing when we each fell in love with the other,” he couldn’t restrain a blush. They all ‘oohed’ and ‘awwed’ and then began asking him even more prying questions. “Ladies, gentlemen, members of the jury, I’ll answer all your questions. No I don’t need a dye job this color is natural thank you though.”

“When I fall in love with him I was wearing this beautiful black number that came with a veil and matching sandals. When he fell in love, oh, he was wearing this beautiful white suit and that stupid tartain bowtie. That funny little hat that he got rid of the first time I made fun of it…” as Crowley drifted off on a wave of nostalgia, thinking of his own stupid hat as well as a particular suitcase and sly smile. Meanwhile, his audience was a little stumped about this anticlimactic reveal. 

“Just a white suit and a black dress? Seems like normal wedding attire to me.”

Crowley sighed and answered, “Yeah I suppose the idea was a little far-fetched. And robes simply don’t hold up nowadays…” His hairdresser was busy admiring the now-dry hair that was suddenly beautifully curled ringlets that perfectly framed this man’s feminine, angular face. “It’s fruitless! Futile! Anyone have a drink?” 

The room was suddenly despaired at this man’s frustration and tried offering idea after idea. However, he stood up, over-paid for their services, and bid them adieu. He’d have to come up with something else clever.

-

“Connect me with the Prince of the Flies,” he asked his answering machine, hoping this wasn’t a big mistake after all. “Connected. Hello, Crowley, why are you calling me?” The short, dark-featured demon began pacing his study. “Well, I’m calling under the assumption, how are you doing by the way? Anyway, I was calling because, well you’ve gotten your mail...your mail from us - Aziraphale and I, I mean - and wanted to...I had a question that I thought...you could help...with.”

There was silence on the other line. “Are you zeriouzly azking me about zex with an angel?”

Crowley whimpered on the other end of the phone and whispered, “Shhhh...eugk, that image is now forever stuck in my head, thank you Beelzebub...No! I was actually asking a bit more specifically about the wedding.”

“Gabriel and I are coming, Crowley. We zent the RZVP to the addrezzz requezted and zpread the word to our fellow contemporariez. Is that all?” They were bored on the other side of the phone, but the angel that was listening on speakerphone was on the floor, bundled up in giggles at this novel concept. 

“I wanted to ask you, man to...snake to fly...about what I should wear.” 

Crowley could hear Gabriel cackling from the other line and immediately blushed a dark red. But he would handle this for his angel’s sake. “Well, Crowley, while that’zz a great question, ya know, I think Gabriel is bezt-zuited for it. Gabe...get up, loser.”

Now Crowley was contemplating how much this decision meant to his pride. If he didn’t so wholly fear disappointing his angel on their wedding day he would have slammed the phone down in one witty remark. “Gabriel,” he swallowed his pride and readied himself. “Crowley.” 

He heard Beelzebub either kick him or hurl an insult in the background and then Gabriel cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve had our differences in the time that you have been Crowley. I’ve been trying to make up for it, especially considering our friendship before everything went up in flames. Give me a moment to rightfully think over your request.”

Crowley absentmindedly watered his plants in one hand while waiting for Gabriel’s response with the other. Aziraphale was away at the children’s hospital, providing peace and joy for them, but if he got home early, Crowley’s peace and joy would duly be stripped. “Ah, I have an idea!” Crowley jumped a bit against the phone receiver. “Not a problem, Crowley. I have the perfect design for you both. Consider it our wedding present to the happy couple. Just send me your measurements and I will handle it.”

Crowley began sputtering about how often his measurements changed when Beelzebub got on the horn again. “A queztion now for you, you twit. Do you think that zince you’re marrying your angel, I’ll have to do the zame with mine?” Still reeling from the earlier conversation, Crowley gulped and said, “I think that’s something you should talk with Gabriel about. That’s what me and Aziraphale did.” 

_Click_. And that was that. And luckily for Crowley because Aziraphale walked in at just that moment. “Who was that, dear?” Crowley sank into his snake-form and hissed, “Nobody, ssssweetie.”

-

Hastur, Ligur, Vida, and Carys were running away from the scene of their most recent crime, jubilantly laughing the whole way. Every day but one out of the week, the four of them were thick as thieves, and often as stealthy as them as well. This particular incident found them sitting atop some abandoned bus in the woods, smoking packs and packs of cigarettes. Vida had come up with the idea to steal them from the convenience store and now the foursome took great joy in the taste of smoke that wasn’t fouled by Hell’s grime or purified by Heaven’s filtration. 

Hastur and Ligur had certainly gotten closer in this encounter, in the same way that Vida and Carys had been before the Collaboration. In Heaven, it was well-known that all angels had originally been made to find their mates, but, because of the Battle, this attempt immediately became futile. The only set of mates salvaged were Sera and Seraphiel, who were held to the highest esteem by God and did not interact with the other angels at all.

When humans were created, Carys and Vida were the first ones assigned to be Cupids: a group formed by Cherubim that were going to become guardian angel leadership. That leadership was made up of a total of four with a whole legion of angels to control. When they first got assigned, the women took one look at their new physique, nearly identical to the other, and discussed whether they were mates. No answer ever came of this, but that didn’t stop them from metaphorically climbing into the other’s bed each night. As angels of delivering love, who would deliver it to them?

Hastur and Ligur thought the same thing when they had ‘demon nights’ every so often. Demons were not made to love, but surely if they were, these Cupids would be the ones to tell them? Hastur had created a bad habit of staring at Ligur, open-mouthed, for way too long to be appropriate. Ligur didn’t seem to mind and he frequently, tenderly removed Hastur’s toad to place with his chameleon so they could act like humans and observe the most vile things imaginable, together. Neither demon thought they could part from this partnership. 

They bonded over the loneliness Hastur felt when Ligur died, and how Ligur felt when Crowley threatened Hastur at trial. Every touch of the others’ shoulder, every soft smile in the moonlight, every time they ditched Carys and Vida to go off on their own...The angels knew each and every one of those tricks - they’d practically invented them.

“Now that that angel and demon are getting married, you think relationships in Heaven and Hell are going to stop being taboo?” Carys asked around a drag. Vida laid her pristine leg over her partner’s identical one. “Of course. People like Michael will always have a stick up their asses about it, but I’m sure you demon-sorts will be more than happy at that.” Carys nodded at Vida’s words, adding quickly, “You’ve got incubi and succubi down there for Heaven’s sakes!”

Hastur and Ligur were passing a liquor bottle around, contemplated the girls’ statements. “I can’t see Beelzebub having any objections, given the condition they’re in, ha,” Hastur declared, hoping that was all he would have to say. “Vida and I are thinking of putting in formal notice of our relationship when we get up to Heaven. All these heathen humans are too mundane for us, so we’ll stick to what we know.” Vida playfully bit her partner’s collarbone to make the point.

When the four of them walked amongst the town, they originally always turned heads. It had looked like identical Barbie doll twins followed by two grimy farmers or laborers of some sort. Realizing that this lessened the effect the girls desired, they quickly cleaned up their partners in crime. Now it looked like two Barbie dolls, an accountant, and a doctor when they walked the streets. When they were alone now, the boys were cleaner, but maintained their natural human face, including the swamp slime and chameleon skin. Despite the fact that they never let a human get too close to them, the girls thrived off being adored, and they got ten times the attention now that they were surrounded by clean-shaved, successful-looking men.

“The incubi and succubi were actually restrained to service jobs, the best I can remember,” Ligur offered finally. The men were uncomfortable as they watched Vida get even closer to Carys, covering her in tiny bite marks and lipstick stains. The moment they started moaning atop that bus, the demons hurried out of there.

As they walked the forest, Hastur couldn’t help but leaning slightly closer into Ligur. “I’m glad you didn’t actually die.” Ligur nodded solemnly and took the biggest risk he’d taken throughout his entire career as demon: he reached for Hastur’s hand. It was well-known fact that Hell was cramped and cluttered; everyone was always brushing shoulders and the perverts always grabbed more than that. It was jarringly pleasant for the both of them to feel simple intimacy with someone they deeply cared for. 

“I’m glad to call you my best friend, Hastur,” Ligur finally said. Hastur nodded, answering, “The same here.” Suddenly, Crowley’s love for humanity and how it affected him made perfect sense. These two demons wouldn’t give up cigarettes, moonlight walks, abandoned buses, daring escapes, moments like these, for anything. And the naughty angels a few hundred feet away would laugh if asked to give up the touch of the other’s skin, the sound of their heels against marble church floors, or the feeling of a fresh buzz from a fruity drink. The Collaboration was working just as planned.


	14. Chapter 14

“Don’t open that!” Crowley screeched as she lurched up from the kitchen table where she’d previously been stooped over her coffee cup. Aziraphale scrunched his eyebrows up, testily acknowledging that his partner shouldn’t speak to him like that. Despite that, the demon chuckled nervously and didn’t condescend the angel when she said, “It’s our wedding clothes. I want it to be a surprise.” Aziraphale nodded, ready to drop the subject when he saw what was written on the front.

“Gabriel…”

A trail of redness erupted on Crowley’s cheekbones and travelled all the way down to her exposed collarbones. A sudden mischievous glint appeared in the angel’s eyes and tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Crowley, my dear sweet girl, do you want me to embarrass you with my guesses or save yourself the trouble?”

She pulled her robe closer to her body, wincing internally for ever thinking she ever had good ideas. “Look, angel, I was at a loss...unsure of what to do really...too many ideas in my head,” the blush deepened, “I wanted to make everything perfect for you.” After a few moments of silence, she grumbled, “Gabriel was the best option.” 

Aziraphale nodded, retreating back to his spot on the couch. He threw the blanket back over his partner and settled himself back in with his book. “I do think we should talk about it,” he whispered after a few beats of Crowley looking miserable at the other end of the couch. “Talk about what?” was the nervous response that felt like it was miles and miles away. Crowley was still stubbornly shivering because she had only a robe on while sitting on a leather couch in the early spring. 

These times were the ones that Aziraphale wished he could press a skip button and move forward in time. He despised having true arguments with Crowley, but found that them having unspoken tension about certain topics bred contempt that shuffled around their quiet home, ruining the carpeting and scratching the walls. “Dear, come here and get warm. There’s no reason for you to be so stubborn.” The look in her eyes when it met Aziraphale’s was an icy one that the latter always dreaded seeing. 

“Dear girl, what is the matter with you this morning?” The response was something quieter than a whimper. It was then that Aziraphale remembered the harsh nightmare that had plagued her all night. She very rarely had nightmares in her feminine form, which baffled the both of them, but when they happened, they were usually more intense than the last. The previous night, Aziraphale had held her for as long as it took to pass the nightmares, but found himself glancing towards his unfinished book on the nightstand. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had picked up on this and cast judgment on him because of it. 

At this point, nearly half an hour had passed since the delivery man had come and gone, and Crowley was curled up shivering on the couch and Aziraphale was now haughtily ignoring her. “I don’t understand why you do this, Crowley,” he sighed. “What do you want me to do? I don’t even know why you’re mad at me…” She miracled a bottle of wine and sipped it straight from its source. “Well, who said I was mad at you?” was all Aziraphale could politely muster. 

“You just act mad at me,” was the quiet response, followed by a large gulp of wine.

“How am I acting mad at you?”

“You’re so stiff...you don’t...hold me the same when you’re mad at me.” Crowley very rarely acted so vulnerable, but it somehow made Aziraphale even angrier. He didn’t even know that he had been irritated, but now there was no denying it.

“You get mad at me too, dear.”

“Not as often as you do with me. You can’t even look at me.”

Crowley was right. Aziraphale had been avoiding her gaze this whole morning. His mind flashed back to when Crowley had fallen asleep after the nightmare when all he could think about was every betrayal he’d felt at Crowley’s hands. The feeling that Crowley hadn’t told him that he’d been taken to Hell and tortured. The fact that he never would tell him when he was shedding his skin when he was his most vulnerable. Why hadn’t she gotten over the nightmares yet? They have a good life together now. And he still talks to his and Aziraphale’s torturers like they were old friends of theirs.

“Well, maybe I am mad. Am I not allowed to?” was all he could come up with.

“It would be better if you just yelled at me or hit me when you got mad,” she muttered, trying to consume as much alcohol as possible as quickly as possible.

“My dear, put that bottle down. I could never hit you. I’ve raised my voice at you before and know that it just makes you do the same. What is this all even about?”

“I don’t know. I just know I woke up this morning and you were cold and distant towards me. No explanation. If you want me to leave I can, but if this is going to become common maybe I should just get my own place. You don’t want me around anyway…” Her voice was breaking and she was trying to make herself even smaller. Why was she acting so skiddish?

“Dear girl, what is going on? I was cold this morning yes, but there’s got to be something more going on to make you so distraught.”

Crowley shrugged, making her robe look even more disjointed. It swallowed her whole because it was a masculine silk robe that had been in the closet since they’d moved in. She tried to clear her throat a few times before bursting into tears. “Do you even love me Aziraphale? Is this a pity marriage to supplement the Arrangement? Have I fabricated the idea that you have fallen in love with me as deeply as I have...for you? Will you, will you ever under-understand the d-degree to which I l-l-love you?” At this point she was blubbering and Aziraphale couldn’t hear her over her hyperventilation. 

“Of course I love you. What is going on?”

He got her to calm down after a few minutes and she composed herself long enough to explain, “I feel like we ignore the bad parts of each other so we can live here in the cottage in peace. We don’t talk about anything bad or unpleasant anymore. And then sometimes you wake up cold or I wake up wary and then we pretend nothing’s amiss. Why can we not talk to each other?”

“My sweet, we never have talked to each other...you realize that right?” Aziraphale’s words made her young face light up slightly in curiosity. She was obviously running the statement through her head, checking for credibility on her end. Then a slight smile fell to her face. She moved herself over on the couch so that her head was on Aziraphale’s shoulder and announced, “Then we will start doing that right now. Tell me why you were mad at me this morning.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t realize that I was mad until you made it worse a moment ago,” he answered honestly. He hoped this would actually work for the two of them; he personally believed their previous method was more efficient. Crowley gave him the time to think it over. “Well, I’m not sure what it was, but seeing you receiving a package from Gabriel gave me a strange feeling close to jealousy, but different still. And your nightmare last night was particularly egregious. You never tell me what happens in them though.”

“It was after the coronation, after our wedding. We both got sent back to our respective domains because ‘archangels are not allowed mates’ and Satan wanted me for important torturing - that of my coworkers. And we were stuck forever, never to see each other again. You were miserable, never able to go back down to earth and forced to indoctrinate others to  _ properly _ do your previous job. Neither of us were disrespected, but the nightmare was so severe because…”

She gulped a few times before continuing, “Satan and the Almighty initiated a matchmaking service for certain angels and demons. Archangels had to remain alone, but we Princes...we were forced into relationships with incubi and succubi. My succubi...made me miserable. The exact opposite. And she tortured me with images of you, producing...producing my children and then doing despicable things to them…”

Stillness. “I know it doesn’t seem as bad as the others, but it was much different than any other dream. It felt very wrong and very real. And being in your distant arms made it that much more believable.” Aziraphale hugged her close to him, landing deep kisses into her hair. “I will never allow that to happen, you know that. And I do love you Crowley. You need to remember sometimes that my own past has interfered with my ability to acknowledge some of my malignant traits and behaviors. Never doubt that I love you though. I marched into Hell for you, after all.”

She sighed into him, nodding. “So are you and Gabriel...friends now or what?” She shook her head. 

“No, but I figure with his guilty conscience we would be fools not to make use of it. I will stop communicating with him if it makes you feel better. I know what treacherous things he did to you.” Aziraphale felt numb to his experiences, thinking of them as a different life entirely. “If he truly repents, I will forgive him. For now however, being completely honest, it would make me feel better if I don’t have to be reminded of him.” Crowley was more than happy to oblige, snuggling her nose into her partner’s cotton shirt in a snake-like fashion.


End file.
